Traversing the Needle's Eye
by realbullet
Summary: Takes place about six years after the events of LMI. Owen and Abby have taken residence in a Pueblo steel and are growing apart. Fire can purify or it can destroy. Or it can harden iron into steel. Owen has been tested in fire and passed through the needle's eye. With determination arising from the hardened experiences of his life, Owen faces the fiery onslaught of fate.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Sisters of Mercy

January 20, 1989

Living off the streets, theft, begging, nourishment from trash dumpsters, and a new found addiction to cocaine, Owen wondered, not for the first time, if perhaps he could have chosen a better life. Police custody didn't seem the best way to spend the night before he crossed the threshold into paradise. Truth be told, he would have chosen police custody.

The police officer shoved him through the emergency room doors. In anticipation Owen raised his manacled hands to brace himself. Startled when the expected collision didn't occur, he crashed to the cold, white tile floor. Automatic doors were not something his chemically laced mind could anticipate. He squeezed his eyes shut against the glare of the bright hospital fluorescent lights as they challenged the outside darkness.

The hospital waiting room was classically decorated in early-American orange naugahyde which clashed with the bare beige walls. The freshly mopped floors radiated a pleasant chlorine bleach odor and were decorated with an agreeable pattern of random cigarette burn marks. It smelled like the mill after a kill.

A 19-inch color television bracketed to the wall broadcasted a replay of the afternoon's presidential inaugural speech; background noise that unexpectedly rang clear on the sound of a word or the turn of a phrase. "But this is a time when the future seems a door you can walk right through into a room called tomorrow. Great nations of the world are moving toward democracy through the door to freedom."

The police officer followed Owen into the lobby. Laughing, the officer kicked at his prisoner's chest as he lay on the floor. "Freedom; that's kind of funny. Considering you won't be seeing it any time soon. Get up!" Owen struggled to raise himself. Expelling a weak cough, he settled back on the floor as the officer ignored him. _He can joke and kid about prison as much as he likes; it's seems like a good way to avoid bad choices._

The officer addressed the nighttime ER duty nurse, "I have another excellent example of our virtuous junkie populace. He will need some of your finest medical attention before I can take him back to the station. Where do you want him?"

Behind the lobby desk the duty nurse glanced up from her beginning shift paperwork and sighed. "Tony, don't kick him like that," she said. She donned her latex gloves and scurried around the reception counter. She knelt next to the patient and lifted his head by the chin. He peeked at her through narrow slits of watery, bloodshot eyes. Almost as bright green as Abby's on her happiest days.

xXx

The boy's shoulder length brown hair and beard were matted and unkempt. "He's a new one. I've never seen him here before." His left arm exhibited a few puncture marks at the joint with associated discoloration. She leaned down to lift his shirt revealing deep, multiple old and recent bruising. The youth recoiled from her touch. "Is this some of your handiwork?" she asked.

"Not all of it." He smirked. Noticing the nurse's glare, the officer removed his cap rubbing his short brown hair. Erasing his smile, he stared in no particular direction; he softened his stance, "He gave as good as he got. The boy was a lot more active a little while ago."

"I'll bet he was." The nurse pushed back the patient's matted hair exposing his grimy face. He was a lot younger than she thought at first. "Do you have any information on him? Name? Age? Substance of abuse?"

With a glare of contempt, the police officer glanced at the body curled on the floor. "John Doe, flying like a kite up on Goat Hill. Anything else you'll have to get from him?"

She continued her examination. The patient wore faded denim that was bunched around his waist with an old leather belt on its tightest notch. On his feet he wore black canvas high tops without socks. "Is that blood on his pant leg?" She wondered audibly - instantly regretting the indiscretion in front of the police officer.

"Could be," Tony considered, "probably his own. Sometimes it can be a little tough to aim the needle – if you know what I mean." The officer parodied injecting his arm with an exaggerated impression of someone intoxicated.

George Bush droned on in the background. "We as a people have such a purpose today. It is to make kinder the face of the Nation and gentler the face of the world. My friends, we have work to do. There are the homeless, lost and roaming. There are the children who have nothing, no love, no normalcy. There are those who cannot free themselves of enslavement to whatever addiction—drugs, welfare, the demoralization that rules the slums. There is crime to be conquered, the rough crime of the streets."

Tony interjected, "If you ask me, the way to conquer crime and drugs is a little less of the 'kinder, gentler' and a little more of the 'rougher, tougher'." He chuckled at his own crass humor. _Who needs the Tonight Show?_ "The solution for Pueblo is easy. A platoon of marines in the north side could take care of both the unemployment and crime in one sweep. Just haul 'em back home."

"Give it a rest," the nurse said, but there was no anger in it. "That's pretty rough talk coming from a fourth generation Italian. What do you think your ancestors faced when they arrived here?"

"I just want to make sure the Mexicans get the same taste of the American dream we all received: utter contempt. It's the American way!"

"Mexicans? That's awfully civil of you. When did that start?"

"I'd prefer something more colorful like wetback, spic, taco, … you know the ones. But the chief cracked down. I can't even use 'alien' unless I have a straight face, which is just about impossible."

The nurse arched her eyebrows, "The chief? I think he's worse than you."

"Of course, I mean the big chief … the one at home." His grin widened.

xXx

Owen enjoyed the banter as he lay on the floor. _So this is how adults relate to each other. _Even on the tile floor he was comfortable and content. In custody he knew safety. The removal of choice meant the removal of his faulty judgment.

The officer's walkie talkie crackled, interrupting the banter. "Calling all units. Possible code 187 on the corner of Lamskin and West C Street. A mutilated body was reported outside the abandoned metal finishing plant. Please respond. Out."

He tugged at his radio and pushed the talk button. "10-4, this is unit R12 responding. I'm finishing up at the hospital. I'll be there in five minutes. Out." The officer expression turned serious, "So how old do you think those blood stains are?"

"They're brown and dry. These are old stains. I'd say at least a month."

The officer shrugged, "All right then I guess he's yours. Not that this hasn't been fun. Murder trumps junkie every time … probably one of the new gangs in town proving themselves. I'll return in the morning to collect him." He donned his cap and pulled a folded up piece of paper from his left breast pocket. "Sign here." He handed her the slip of paper.

_Wonder who was killed tonight._ For once Owen didn't know, yet he had mixed feelings about his ignorance. Could he have chosen a better victim? Possibly, but the choosing was never easy. He tried to feel content in the ignorance of his intoxication. The coward's escape, but the only way he knew how.

"Could you at least remove his handcuffs?" the nurse asked as she scribbled on the bottom of the form.

"I can cuff him to a bed if you want. Sometimes these guys can be tougher than they look."

"No, that won't be necessary. He's already crashing. I think we can handle him."

He shot her a perplexed look, shrugged and removed the handcuffs; the police officer kissed the nurse on the cheek and hurried out the door.

President Bush continued in the background, "For democracy belongs to us all, and freedom is like a beautiful kite that can go higher and higher with the breeze. And to all I say: No matter what your circumstances or where you are, you are part of this day, you are part of the life of our great nation."

The duty nurse stared with annoyance as the officer exited the building. "Hear that. You are part of the life of our great nation – no matter what your circumstances are. At least he has the higher and higher part right. You're part of this day; we'll try to keep you part of tomorrow, too." She looked compassionately at her decrepit patient. "Do you have a name?" she asked.

xXx

The patient pushed himself up into a seated position with the nurse's help. He rubbed his raw wrists; his bony frame conspicuous through his torn, thin black T-shirt. Instead of answering he began to shake uncontrollably for several minutes. While shaking, he could almost grasp the irony in the President's next words, "There are few clear areas in which we as a society must rise up united and express our intolerance. The most obvious now is drugs. And when that first cocaine was smuggled in on a ship, it may as well have been a deadly bacteria, so much has it hurt the body, the soul of our country. And there is much to be done and to be said, but take my word for it: This scourge will stop."

As the shakes died down, he vomited evidence of his body's intolerance on the previously clean hospital tile. The nurse grabbed a nearby waste bucket. Cradling the patient around his shoulders, she held his matted hair aside. When he was finished, she cleaned his face and dirtied hair with an antiseptic wipe. She began to repeat her question again, when he whispered, "Owen." He lay back on the tile and closed his eyes.

The duty nurse considered shaking him awake, but thought the better of it. She called an orderly to help load him on the gurney and clean up the vomit. After the orderly wheeled Owen back to the patient areas, he prepared him for admittance. He removed his grimy clothes and tennis shoes. No underwear … no surprise.

His pockets held twelve crumpled one dollar bills, a small bell with the clapper taped, a plastic baggy with hundreds of grains of rice, and a vial of water. There was also a photograph – wallet-size, faded and cracked; a black & white photograph of a young girl. I_ wonder who she is?_ The orderly placed these belongings in a small bag. He cloaked him in a flimsy hospital gown that made the black T-shirt look cozy. The entire time, Owen was completely unaware of the attention. His body continued to tremble; his breathing was rapid and shallow.

When the orderly was completed, the duty nurse dismissed him. She checked his vital signs - pulse rapid at 120 beats per minute, respiration rapid and shallow, blood pressure high at 180 over 90, and temperature 97.8 degrees, not surprising considering the T-shirt in sub-freezing temperatures. The eyes remained blood shot and dilated. She placed a blanket on him and woke up the on-call physician. While waiting she attached electronic monitoring devices and a nutritional IV bag.

xXx

During the examination, Owen grew more aware what was happening to him. He continued to play comatose. For the first time in years he felt peaceful. Someone was taking care of him.

Wearing a crisp white lab jacket covering his green scrubs and a ceremonial stethoscope around his neck, the young doctor sauntered into the emergency room hands in pocket. He scrubbed those hands in the sink and donned his protective mask and gloves before turning to the patient. "How's our patient today?"

"Fine, Doctor." The nurse gave a courtesy smile handing him the chart.

The doctor scanned the patient's chart, nodding at the notations and returned it to the nurse. He pulled out his penlight from his shirt pocket and reached over to open the patient's left eyelid. With a disgusted look on his face, he jolted back away from Owen. "Damned parasites! I hate them." he whispered.

"Excuse me, doctor?"

"Sorry … lice. Make sure that you delouse him when I'm done." The nurse nodded; the infestation was described on the chart. Owen started as the doctor continued his poking and prodding. The discomfort was small compared to the warmth of the blanket. The doctor asked him several questions that Owen ignored.

Owen winced as the doctor pressed against his ribs. He spent a lot of time searching for damage or breaks. Apparently satisfied x-rays were not needed; he provided the final details for the nurse. "Add 10 mg of diazepam to the IV to help him sleep. Make sure you record the nutritional IV on the prescription." He smiled. "Let me know if his condition worsens. I'll be in the lounge getting a snack and watching the news." The doctor tossed his latex gloves and smiled at the nurse as he strolled away.

The nurse needed to complete reams of forms on her new patient. She opened the patient chart clipboard, completing the information on the doctor's orders. "Owen," she said, "There are a few more questions I need to ask, if you don't mind." Owen nodded. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," Owen answered, "more or less."

If the nurse wondered about the description, she recorded it without question. "Where are you from, honey?"

Owen thought for several minutes trying to remember. "Ala …. Alamo…" He sighed in frustration.

"Alamosa?" He nodded. That answer would work as well as the truth. She again recorded it on the clipboard. "That's enough for now, sweetie. Try to get some rest."

Peter Jennings continued with his analysis of the now finished speech. "The forty-first president of the United States emphasized a number of key themes in his first inaugural address: a call to volunteerism with his thousand points of light, harsh words for drug dealers and abusers, and a celebration of democratic freedoms rising in the former communist republics."

Owen startled the nurse as he rolled over and opened his eyes. "Freedom…"

His first initiation of conversation – she wasn't going to waste this opportunity. "Yes, Owen?"

"Freedom … can build its own sort of prison."

She answered him sadly, "Yes, it can, honey. There is a lot of that going around in Pueblo right now. Try to get some sleep."

He curled up in the fetal position and drifted back to sleep.

January 21, 1989

_Owen found himself dancing fully naked with a large rattlesnake. It felt awkward, but Owen enjoyed the intimacy. The rattling tail provided the beat for the spectral music. He bobbed his head in rhythm as they swayed around the wooden dance floor. Writhing to the music the rough scales scraped his arms. The room was otherwise empty save for an infant cooing nearby playing with his fingers and toes._

_The snake slithered over to the baby without losing the rhythm of the music. Owen continued to awkwardly bob his head, more or less in time with the rattle. The snake circled and studied her prey with her tongue searching in anticipation. Smiling, the baby tried to play with the rattle from the tail as it twisted out of reach. He reached up to tease her fangs. The fangs struck back in return. _

_A piercing wail replaced the cooing and the snake's rattle played louder. Owen squeezed his eyes shut and placed his fingers in his ears, but he couldn't shut out the racket. Residual bawling echoed in the air even when the snake tore into her meal. Blood splattered over the wooden dance floor and a tart, metallic odor filled the air. The serpent gulped its meal. Satiated, with bulging belly, she sashayed back to the dancing Owen. _

_Irritated, he challenged his partner, "Why did you do that? Why did you eat the baby?"_

"_That was not a baby. That was an apple; a very sweet, red delicious apple," The serpent answered. Owen remembered that it was just an apple. An apple would be nice. Imagine mistaking an apple for a baby. Strange, how there is so much blood from just one apple._

_The snake laid its head on Owen's shoulder. Her tongue tickled his neck. The rattle continued to mark time. A mixture of blood and poison dripped from her teeth and sizzled as they struck his bare skin. The drops stained Owen's back and shoulder dark purple. The snake steered the couple over toward a large bonfire. The warmth turned Owen's calf red. Perspiration glistened on his forehead. The fire wasn't there before. Was it? "It's getting hot, why did you build the fire?" Owen asked. The wooden dance floor blackened under the crackling timber._

"_The fire is for you, my little apple." Owen grew nervous as the snake nibbled his neck again._

_Fearing the worst, Owen pushed away staring into the deep blue eyes of his slithering partner. "Are you going to eat me too?" _

"_Never!" The serpent smiled. Can snakes smile? "I wouldn't enjoy the taste. You are rotten to the core." _

_Owen pivoted his partner to move away from the fire. He stopped dancing when he caught sight of three judges. Sitting around a semicircular jurist bench they were wearing identical grave expressions while presiding over the dance. In the front of the bench was carved a dove holding a torch in one claw and a sword in the other. Two stone statues bracketed the bench. On one side lady justice carried her scales and tablets. She peeked through her blindfold with one eye surveying the proceedings. On the other side a large book was opened to the Ten Commandments. "Thou shalt not kill," shined brightly next to the other nine._

_The first judge was an angry, bespectacled old man with a cigarette. The one who had live next to Owen in his apartment building with the young girl. He looked odd in his black robe and gray curls. He flicked a cigarette and a gavel in the other. Owen almost laughed despite the seriousness. _

_"I remember you," the judge growled. "I used to be just like you." He banged his gavel hard against the bench. The sound reverberated, echoing through the chamber._

_The second judge was his father. His jurist wig was made of tight gray curls and wrapped around his chin. Owen relaxed; his father was tougher than Abby's toe-nails, but fair. He worried about the sawed off broomstick his father wiggled in front of him. "You thought you could stand up to me? I'm going to take this stick and ram it where the sun don't shine – in hell. Guilty!" The broomstick slammed down. The sound reverberated, echoing through the chamber. Owen was growing concerned. What was the penalty for poor dancing?_

_Owen barely recognized the third judge surrounded by a haze. She wore a black terry cloth robe tied at the waist, and her wig hung loosely. Wineglass held tightly in her left hand, she bounced the gavel loosely in the right. A white alcohol mist sprayed as she spoke her pronouncement. "Woe to ye who call evil good and good evil." Who says ye anymore? "Misery and pain will reign in your eternal torment. Paradise belongs to those who defend righteousness and justice. You have become a slave to Lilith, and you will burn in the maelstrom of Hell for all eternity!" It almost made sense. She struck her gavel seven times making deep bell tones with each tap. "Or choose the needle's eye." She said pointing to a tent needle hanging in the air._

_"How? I can't fit through that. It's tiny."_

_The snake slithered toward Owen. "I might get to taste you after all, my withered old apple." She wriggled her bloated belly, shoving Owen into the raging flames. Owen screamed as his body shriveled, engrossed in flame. The screams blended with hundreds of others. His skin wrinkled and his hair grew gray and brittle. Not bothered by the flames, the snake leaned in and kissed his lips once more. "Goodbye Owen." She whispered. She coiled outside the fire with her rattle vibrating. Her mouth accelerated toward his neck…._

Owen jolted awake. Thrashing he ripped out the IV tubes from his arm. Blood pooled in his elbow joint. _Blood. Oh no!_ In a momentary panic he searched wildly around the area. He was alone. He grabbed a piece of cotton and pressed on the wound. Gasping, he sat up and rubbed his freshly trimmed crew cut. His face felt cold. Someone had shaved his beard. It was like being a little kid again.

Where was he? White sheets were draped loosely over his hospital gown, and nobody else was within the confines of the plastic curtain. Isopropyl alcohol irritated his nose while he calmed his rapid breathing. A hospital; he vaguely remembered arriving. Electrical wires were taped to his body. He pulled those loose, too. The equipment alarmed. He heard footsteps outside, and a nurse threw open the curtains.

She smiled as she reached over and silenced the alarms. "Good morning, Owen." It was the same nurse from the previous night. Or at least the same light green scrubs. He noticed that it matched her green eyes. They weren't as pretty as Abby's on her best days. The nurse continued to disconnect the equipment. "Did you sleep well?" she paused, waiting for an answer. Owen nodded. "The doctor has signed your dismissal. Here are your clothes and belongings. As soon I change your bandage, you get dressed. I can contact officer friendly for your ride out of here. There are showers in the rest room, if you want to eliminate that just deloused feeling." She placed his belongings on the bed. "What's with the rice? You don't eat that, do you?"

"Sometimes," Owen shrugged.

The nurse returned the photograph of the young girl. "Who is she? She must be someone very special."

Owen took the picture and stared at with at it for a few moments with aching remorse. He answered matter of factly, as though it were a question he hadn't given much thought to in a while. "I don't know who she is." He returned his belongings to his pockets.

Owen showered, dressed and returned to the emergency room waiting room just as a police officer was entering from outside. His eyes were drawn and tired. He had been up all night. Owen caught his attention with a flash of recognition.

The policeman addressed Owen, "Wow you clean up well. Look what a good night sleep can do. You look like a new man – almost like a real American. With a little luck, I'll be enjoying my own rest soon." The officer turned to the night nurse. "It looks like this is his lucky day. I've been up all night with the detectives at the murder scene. After examining the crime scene, the suits have declared the murderer an animal like a wild dog or a wolf or something." The officer chuckled. "The same pattern as the killings at Lake Pueblo before Christmas … must be some sort of rabid beast. He left a wife and two young children this time."

This death was not Owen's concern. It's a shame for the family, but there was nothing he could do about it.

"Before long we'll host a good old-fashioned wolf hunt. For now, it's is in the capable hands of Animal Controls' finest. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll sweep up a few Mexicans in the dragnet."

"This doesn't sound like it has anything to do with Owen." the nurse smiled. "During my examination, I discovered that he is neither wolf nor dog. I think he's off the hook for this one." Owen wondered why she vouched for him. Perhaps he could growl a little to convince the police officer.

The officer returned the smile. "I'm sure you were very thorough. I haven't been able to return to the station and complete the paperwork. My job description is 'to protect and to serve.' Protecting crime-scene tape is just enough work for a night, not to mention enough overtime. I have a mind to call it a shift and go to sleep." He turned to Owen, "The chief said to let you go. No free room and board at taxpayer expense. At least until I find you on another night. So go forth and sin no more." The police officer turned back to the nurse. "I'll see you later. Don't bring home any strays." Just like the night before, he turned and left the ER.

Owen found this news disappointing. In this case freedom is a curse he would rather avoid. The nurse glanced over toward Owen. "Do you have a place to go, honey?"

"Somewhere on the streets, I guess." Owen shrugged. He knew where he was staying, but he wasn't going to share that with anybody official.

"Wait right here. My shift is over. After I finish closing out your paperwork, I'll clock out and take you someplace special." The nurse grinned at him.

A little while later Owen sat impatiently in the waiting room. Now scrubless, wearing jeans and a Denver Bronco's orange sweatshirt, the nurse exited the changing room and motioned Owen to follow her. She donned her black parka and red plaid scarf looking sadly at Owen in his T-shirt. "I'm Aileen by the way."

They shook hands as they exited the hospital. Owen gasped as he stepped into the bright sunlight. Temporarily blinded, he squinted until his pupils constricted clearing his vision. Aileen bounced along now several steps ahead of him. He jogged, favoring his injured right side, trying to catch up. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting it to be so bright." Their breath glistened in the cool Colorado morning air. Owen's hands shoved in his pockets, as his ears became flush. He'll need a hat to go with his shorter haircut.

Owen studied her more closely now. She looked to be in her early-thirties with shoulder length red hair. She wasn't thin, but she carried herself athletically. They shared small talk as they strolled along the city streets. Owen grunting in monosyllabic answers to the probing questions while he slowly warmed to Aileen's company.

"It's funny the chief letting me go. I don't suppose that police officer will be out here to pick me up along the way," Owen wondered. "He seemed pretty determined."

"I think we'll be okay. I'll let you in on a little secret." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Tony the tough guy is not so tough. I have it on good authority that it wasn't the police chief that suggested he let you go, but the chief at home." She began to look a little serious. "But now you owe me, Owen. I don't think I can hold him off a second time." She stopped walking, turned to Owen, and grabbed his shoulders. She looked directly into his eyes. "I have a good feeling about you. If there is one thing I don't lack it's optimism. You may wind up back in jail, or you may straighten out. You need to stay out of trouble from here on out. Okay?"

Owen pulled away. "Thanks for nothing. I don't owe you anything. I was better off going to jail. I can't get into any trouble there." Even now he could feel the pull, like a strong magnetic attraction. He found himself unconsciously staring in the direction of the old steel mill. Today was stronger than the night before; he knew he could not resist. He lacked the willpower a prison cell could provide.

Aileen smacked him smartly on the face. His cheek stung in the bitter cold. Now, he was paying attention. "I don't know why I try, but you have to wake up! Jail is a dead end street. Petty criminals enter, and hardened criminals come out."

"There are worse things than hardened criminals," Owen countered.

Aileen paused, searching for the right words. "There are worse things than hardened criminals. I have stared in the face of that evil, and it scares the hell out of me." Owen wondered what she had seen. "AIDS. Ten years ago I never heard of it. Now I see it almost every day. These patients are so sick. Over the course of years I watch the disease destroy their spirit of life. Their bodies slowly waste away, but their despair is unbearable. This disease is evil."

Aileen continued down the sidewalk expecting Owen to follow. "Thousand of scientists are working on a cure for AIDS, but these patients need help right now." She laughed. "I don't really expect that kind of miracle, but maybe somebody I help can find a way to bring them some comfort. At the very least, stay away from used needles."

Owen walked staring at the ground in front of him avoiding direct eye contact. "You would have been better letting me go to jail. I am less than nothing. Thanks for your help, but right now I consider it a good night when I make it through to sunrise. Then I hope to make it through the week. I'm not sure what I've done to earn your confidence."

"Maybe you'll wind up back in jail or maybe not." Aileen stopped walking, turned to Owen, and grabbed his shoulder once again. She looked directly into his eyes. "Even if you straighten out, you will probably just putter along with a job here and a job there. But, if there's a chance … even a small chance that you could do something great, then you deserve the chance, and I want you to have it. You earn your own choices … your own fate." She continued as she started walking again, "Stop back the hospital in a few days. I can check your injuries; we should have the results of your blood work by then. If you already have HIV, you should find out for certain so that you can prevent passing it onto others."

"There's no need. I'm sure that I'm infected. I got it – no more needles. I don't need the sermon." Aileen shook her head at Owen's response.

They arrived at the door to the neighborhood homeless shelter. It was an ordinary door with a blue painted metal frame around a reinforced cloudy window. There were metal bars covering the window and somebody had scrawled "paradise" on the bottom half with black spray paint. A door this momentous should be a little less nondescript.

Before Owen could object, Aileen ushered him across the threshold of the door to tomorrow. The shelter was laid out in rows of mismatched portable tables. Some were round some were rectangular. All were different sizes. A stale odor of alcohol wafted from several of the diners. About a dozen individuals scattered sparsely throughout the cafeteria. In one corner sat a mother bottle feeding the youngest of three children. At another table a drooling, gray-bearded man quivered while grasping his soup spoon with intensity. Most of the soup arrived to its destination. Owen was disgusted at what he saw, and then he was disgusted with himself. Who was he to judge their lives? These castoffs were a clear sight better than he was. Uncertain, Owen pulled back. _This is a lot of people_.

Aileen instructed him to stay put while she talked with a young Hispanic girl. He just stood there in the entranceway, paralyzed by the multitudes.

After a few minutes of discussion, Aileen accompanied the other girl over to Owen. The young girl's wavy dark brown hair rippled as she walked over to Owen. A Pueblo State sweatshirt caressed her hips at the perfect angle to accentuate her movement. Two small dimples complemented her gentle smile. "Owen this is Gabriella, she'll help you get settled here." Aileen left with a friendly wave good bye to both of them.

"Hi, Owen, welcome to our little corner of paradise." She reached up to touch his shoulder. "We have something for breakfast over in the kitchen with milk to drink. If you need, we have a few rooms upstairs and donated clothing in the bins to try." She nodded to a few bins lining the wall. "They're all mixed together, so you may have to dig around a little." There was not a hint of recognition in the girl's eyes, but Owen remembered her. His fresh haircut and shave were a blessing in disguise.

"Thank you." His mother told him to always be polite. For years Owen experienced emotions ranging from avoidance to outright hostility. This incorruptible kindness was unusual. He felt it once before, from this very same girl. He wasn't sure how to respond.

She steered him over to the "kitchen". It was not much more than a couple of large crock-pots, a few bowls and pitchers on a table. One pot held grits the other oatmeal. Hot food has been a luxury. He ladled some pasty oatmeal into a ceramic bowl, added a few raisins, and grabbed a spoon and a glass of milk. He chose a seat far away from the other vagrants. Gabriella moved on to speak with some of the other guests.

A well-groomed man, attired in black pants and wearing a gray fleece hunting jacket, entered a back door to the shelter. Smiling, he stopped at the table with the young mother. He caressed the baby's back and spoke to the woman for a few minutes. The woman gave him a faint smile. He shook a few of the hands of some of the other diners and waved to a few others. _Perhaps he is another volunteer._ Gathering a bowl of grits and coffee the new volunteer scanned the room. Owen tried to will the newcomer away from his attention, but to no avail. The volunteer's eyes lit up with discovery upon seeing a new face. Owen groaned as the stranger proceeded toward his table.

"Do you mind if I join you?" He sat down without waiting for an answer.

"Please don't," Owen whispered under his breath. He continued to stare into his bowl, displaying his most unfriendly scowl.

The newcomer placed his grits and two cups, one empty and one full, on the table across from Owen. He rubbed his hands a few times to warm them up and held them over his coffee for a moment. He placed the empty Styrofoam cup under his lips and drooled chewing tobacco into it. Then he took a quick swig from the steaming coffee.

The unwelcome table mate removed his scarf and jacket and laid them on the back of the chair next to him. Dressed entirely in black with a white collar, he bent his head in silent prayer. Owen noticed a plain silver cross dangling from his neck. _A priest … jail would be less punishment._ His smile continued throughout his grace. When finished he looked at Owen, "Ah! Snuff and coffee; what a rush! We all have our vices, right?" He reached out his hand, 'Welcome to St. Simeon's. I'm Father Erasmus." It had been many years since he had been this close to a priest. Stunned, Owen just sat stared. He felt like a fool. The smile remained while the man retracted his hand.

Gabriella saved him. She sat next to Owen and responded to the priest. "Padre, this is Owen. He spent last night in the hospital. He seems a little quiet, but I'm trying to convince him to stay." She brushed against his arm and held his wrist. A familiar, comforting tingle raced up his arm to his neck. Her hands were soft; he enjoyed the contact. Owen struggled down his last swallow of oatmeal. As he watched the gentle rhythm of her lips he caught a whiff of her perfume - roses or some other floral scent. She was a sorceress, and he was bewitched.

She continued to speak to Father Erasmus, but Owen did not quite catch what she was saying. The priest startled him back to the shelter. "That's a great idea, Owen! You should stay." He studied him warmly. Everybody was so friendly here – a little too friendly.

Owen considered the idea. He envisioned the warm bed, heat, and food. He stared around the room at the other lost souls quietly enjoying their meals. The fantasy shattered. "No, I can't stay." Owen's past contained secrets he was not willing to share. And there is no doubt these two were the prying type.

"Why ever not?" the priest wondered. For the first time the smiled faded. "Owen, what we do here is important. Many of these people are without hope. They are elderly; they have addictions that can't be broken; or they have incurable diseases. Most of them have demons that can't be silenced. We can give them care, and I would be happy with just that. But we can't give them hope." He paused to gather his thoughts. "Sometimes a person comes along who is not without hope. For whatever reason fortune frowned upon you and brought you low. For someone like you we can offer more than just care. For someone like you we can break the cycle of despair. This is what brings the shelter life. This is what brings us joy. Truly you are why we can bear to stand the hopelessness. Please consider staying here."

"I won't be staying. You can't deceive me. You stand there in that pulpit and pretend you're better than I am. I know how worthless I am. Priests have destroyed everything I love! You wear the face of evil cloaked in black, and I deny you!" Owen answered stood and slammed his chair against the table. Gabriella drew away. He struggled to hold back tears.

Knowing he pushed the limit Owen dipped his head and continued more calmly than before, "I can't stay. I have to care for my little sister." The lie came easy now – even to a priest. The oatmeal was not quite so warm anymore. He had his own demons to confront. Years of murders taxed his lucidity. The baby's death was unbearable! His appetite gone, Owen slowly stirred the oatmeal with his spoon.

"That's okay, she can stay here too," Gabriella smiled. "What's her name? We might be able to help her." She touched his hand in support. It was a comforting touch. The warmth rose all the way to his shoulder.

"Abby," Owen let slip. He stared uncomfortably at the back of his chair. He continued more firmly than before, "She's very sick."

"We have other sick people staying here. Perhaps we could find a doctor to treat her," Gabriella offered. "She won't be any trouble for us."

"That's not enough. She's contagious. I won't be staying. I may come back, if it's all right. I do get hungry." Puzzled, Gabriella nodded.

_Who am I kidding? I'm not returning._ Owen stalked over to the clothes bin. His heart raced for fear of any more questions. He quickly selected a jacket for himself and a brown sweatshirt and a faded denim skirt for Abby. Then he grabbed a knitted hat for himself. It was enough. He wadded up the clothes and stormed through the shelter door. He risked a glance back at the table and saw Gabriella studying him.

Owen ran as fast as he could on his weakened, wasted body. All the way to the abandoned steel mill and entered through the damaged side door. He could barely see with the windows boarded up, but he knew his way around in the darkness. He found his way to a bin on the main production area and lifted up several layers of blankets where a small girl lay sleeping.

He reached over the edge and caressed her hair, brushing it away from her face. Then he leaned over and kissed her lightly on her soft, pale cheek. "I'm sorry I wasn't here last night. I had to sort out a few things. I still haven't left you." A small smile formed on her face while Owen replaced the blankets. Caressing her shoulder through the blankets, Owen whispered, "Thousands of scientists are searching for a cure for AIDS, but nobody is trying to help you. Perhaps, I can do that."

He knew the answer. He understood the help Abby needed. Six years he had done nothing for her, not the important things. Up until now he had not found the courage. _It's time._

As Owen walked back to his own mattress, he realized something was not quite right. Abby was peaceful and calm, as she should be after a kill. Then it dawned on him; where was the blood from last night's victim?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Arrival in Pueblo

October 25, 1988 Three Months Earlier

**Owen**

"Please don't leave me," Abby pleaded from her seat under the railway bridge.

"I'll never leave you." Owen replied quietly. He kissed her forehead. He stood up and brushed off his pants. "I'll be back for nightfall. Try to stay awake. You'll be more alert if someone comes near." He studied the same petulant young girl he has known for over five years. He leaned down, brushed her long, light hair aside and gave her another kiss, this time on the cheek. He paused, beholding Abby one last time. Then he backed away to survey the city.

A new town means a new beginning, a fresh start. But when it's your twenty-third new town in the last five and a half years then it is just the same old beginning. Where to start?

Owen began with the west side of town - the other side of the railway bridge. With the day still new, half of the buildings looked abandoned. Active businesses hadn't yet opened for the day. He tried a few random doors, but they were all locked. His first time in a city! The thrill of discovery should be more exciting. Pueblo was not a big city, but compared to the small towns where he spent his childhood, it was huge.

For now he had to focus on more immediate demands. Owen didn't have the first idea how to discover and appropriate an abandoned building. In the small towns, he could always count on isolated homes in the outskirts. Once the homeowners were eliminated the house would be theirs until someone investigated. This brought on the difficult choice to move on to a new town. Unfortunately, they were beginning to run out of small towns within their travel radius.

Sometimes the occupants had friends or family than Owen expected. On more than one occasion they were forced to leave haphazardly. They had to leave many belongings behind. The large cedar-lined chest was the most damaging loss. It could always be used as a spare dark room, even in the woods. Without it, Abby had no place to stay without shelter.

Wandering the streets, Owen barely noticed the buildings gradually became more residential. A new city was returning to life. Some were leaving their homes and walking to the nearby bus stop. Others were driving. The small yards were maintained in various degrees ranging from orderly to disarray. One stood out - mile high weeds and a rusted Radio-flyer wagon in the yard. The screen door was hanging askew on one hinge. Even with a few neighbors, this was his best chance, so far.

Owen walked up and down the street several times. The commuter traffic died down, and the school buses had taken children for their daily waste of time. Still, nobody moved around his target. Owen sneaked toward the backyard and peeked into the downstairs window. The house was furnished, but it was a wreck. Perfect. There were even a few trees to cover the activity from the neighbors.

He jiggled the back door handle. It was locked, but it didn't look very sturdy. He braced his shoulder to ram it above the doorknob. Owen heard growling moments before his shoulder struck. When the door crashed open, both pit bull terriers leaped to their feet baring their teeth. The fur on the backs of their necks bristled. An animated man came crashing down the stairs and the terriers leaped at Owen. He slammed the door shut in time to hear them smashing into the other side.

Twenty yards down the road he heard the door open. "Get 'im boys," was accompanied by agitated barking. This was one of those moments Owen wished he had Abby's speed. He was glad she didn't get to witness his chaotic sprint. Over a fence, he lost the dogs as he reached the Main Street Bridge. He took the chance to regain his composure and appreciate the humor is his own circumstances. Perhaps he would try the north side of the river for the rest of the day.

He walked the same streets they traveled the night before – after the cab dropped them off. Daytime betrayed the false luster. The city was kind of like Abby that way – bright and energetic at night; tired and run down during the day. The taverns were a dilapidated shadow of their nighttime intensity. Prostitutes and sermonizers had vanished with the night. Darkness no longer hid the trash and vomit stains covering the sidewalks. Stray animals patrolled in clean up duty, and panhandlers occupied a few strategic locations.

As the late morning wore on, Owen's stomach grumbled. His last meal was over a day ago. He wanted to conserve his few remaining dollars for a more desperate time. Owen spotted a Dumpster behind the city courthouse. There was usually plenty of food within one of those, and it rarely spoiled during the fall chill. Searching through this Dumpster, Owen found mostly office trash – lots of paper. _That's annoying._

A few minutes later he found a supermarket parking lot. A swirl of smoke, confirmed by the rustic smell of burning pine, rose from behind a fence. He followed his senses and he found two men in an empty lot enjoying the comfort of a small fire. One had long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail the second sported a similar brown ponytail. With warmth that matched the fire's glow the gray haired man spoke, "Welcome friend. Come join us by the fire." Blaise stood up indicated for Owen to take his cinder block on the ground. "I'm Blaise and this here is Greg." Greg waved casually.

Owen sat down on the cinder block. "I'm Owen." He shook their hands. Blaise's eyes displayed intensity from years on the streets. "I'm new in town, and I am getting a little hungry. I was hoping I stumbled across the local connoisseurs of fine Dumpster diving cuisine."

Greg answered first, "I can't help you there. I like to consider myself a 'skipper.' It's what they call 'em in England. I like to think of it as a higher class form of Dumpster diver." He drank from a thermos with his pinky extended aristocratically.

Owen turned to Blaise, "How about you? Are you a skipper, too?"

"No, I'm a freegan. I live off of the waste of others." He answered pleasantly. "It's a lifestyle choice."

Owen wasn't certain whether to take these two seriously. "I'm too hungry to aspire to be a skipper or a freegan. Perhaps you could identify some Dumpsters for my pleasure."

"You can usually find fresh fruit and vegetables in the bin behind the grocery store. The garbage truck comes every morning. By around late morning there is plenty of produce within reaching distance. Security guards will chase you away if they see you, but they are pretty harmless and don't patrol regularly. Check out today's menu. We'll keep your seat warm for you."

Owen left the other two and strolled to the trash area on the other side of the fence. Some delivery men unloaded a truck of goods nearby, but they were practiced at being blind to what they chose to ignore. He opened the bin lid, and it was loaded. Aside from boxes and trash bags, he could see bags of apples, lettuce, and potatoes. Next to the bin was a pole used by employees to push the garbage further back. Owen used the pole to move the produce closer to him. He left the lettuce. He also found a stack of cupcakes in a clear, plastic clamshell marked 'day old'.

Fresh from his Dumpster foray, staggering under the load of produce, Owen returned to the fire with Blaise and Greg. With his eyes shut, Greg played "Home on the Range" on a harmonica. It was a regular old Western moment.

Owen offered some of his gains to his newfound friends, which they refused. As he ate his meal, he decided to delve for more information about Pueblo. "Do either of you know of any abandoned buildings for shelter?"

"I usually sleep out on the streets." Blaise said. "Some sidewalks have heating exhaust. When it gets really cold, I'll try the shelter."

"I need a place indoors, like an abandoned house or store."

Greg remained in his own reality, playing his harmonica while Blaise did the talking. "I do what I can to ignore the rest of the world. I'm sure there are empty buildings around, but I couldn't tell you which ones they were. If you want to know which alleys to avoid, I can help you."

After finishing a raw potato, skin and all, Owen pulled out his cupcakes. "I insist that you two join me in dessert. Today's my eighteenth birthday. We need to celebrate."

Blaise wished him luck. Greg changed the tune to his harmonica to play happy birthday. This was the first time Greg acknowledged Owen's return. _Wonder what's in that thermos._ Blaise sang along, almost in tune with the harmonica.

After the song, Blaise rooted through his rucksack. He pulled out a strong plastic comb. "Happy birthday," he said handing it to Owen. He was speechless at the kindness.

"Thanks, but it's not really my birthday. That was a few months ago. I just didn't have anyone to celebrate with."

"Keep the comb with my blessing. I have another."

A nice respite, but Owen had another task, and the city was not getting any smaller. Asking townspeople for help proved fruitless. Those who chose not ignore him, turned hostile at questions about abandoned buildings.

Owen recalled that horrifying flash of uncertainty from five years ago. Back then it was Owen alone with a heavy trunk – Abby inside. Here, there should be a thousand possibilities, but he didn't have any idea how to narrow it down. He could not relinquish his burden of uncertainty. There were too many people around, and the buildings were all so close together. How could he find a place isolated from prying neighbors? Abby relied on him, and he was failing. He had no choice but to continue.

He found himself in an alley where more than a dozen Hispanic children cheered a tabby cat playing with a rat. The cat hissed and batted each time the rat tried to escape. The excited children enjoyed the sport. Two boys dumped a lively sack, adding a solid black cat to the fray. The new cat eyed both the rat and the tabby with surprising cunning. He was oblivious to the spectators.

After a few seconds, the cats attacked each other, renouncing the rat. The rat scurried into a hole in the road as the cats converged into a violent blur of orange and black. It ended within moments. The wounded tabby scampered away leaving the solid black cat to parade in front of the cheering children. His coat bore battle scars of bare patches and scratches. Money changed hands on the outcome. Even the losers were excited at the spectacle.

When the festivities died down, Owen worked up the courage to approach the children about a place to stay. These children proved much friendlier than downtown passersby. The few who spoke English offered up a local steel mill. The recent closure of the mill left many in the town out of work. It was easy to find, the smokestack rose over the rest of the city.

An unused alley passed from the street to the mill's huge, empty parking lot. Now a lonely, homeless man made his home there. When Owen passed by, the old man declared his isolation by screaming, "Get out of my alley!" from within his plastic wrapped cardboard box.

"I'm just passing through," Owen replied.

He followed the street to the decaying property. Aside from a few stray dogs sniffing around, it was perfect! The windows were already boarded up, with doors were locked tight. It was getting late in the afternoon – almost time to share his success with Abby and escort her to their new home. The steel mill was built along the river and the railroad tracks. Owen would just have to follow them back to her hideout.

The train yard bustled with activity now. Workers moved freight cars into position to connect with the locomotives. A rumbling symphony of movement.

Owen's shadow lengthened in the light of the descending sun. The sun shined completely through the railway underpass. It was empty. "Abby?" he called in a loud whisper. With no answer, Owen doubled his speed. He should have insisted she stay in the sewer drain. He knew this wasn't safe. Why couldn't she listen to him? "Abby?" Owen cried louder.

"Here I am," a weak voice cried from the other side of the bridge.

"Are you okay?" Owen crossed under the bridge with some relief.

"No." This time the voice was angrier.

Owen reached the other side of the bridge. Abby was crouched within the narrow sliver of a shadow that remained in the bridge abutment. "What happened?" Owen wondered.

"I burnt my finger." Abby said holding up her charred right pinky finger. "It really hurts!"

Owen sat down next to her and pulled her close. "How did that happen?"

"I was waiting for a long time. It was incredibly boring." Abby stretched out those words to emphasize how incredibly boring it was. "Finally, I fell asleep. I couldn't help it. I woke up when I felt my finger burning." Abby grimaced from the memory. "I had to take shelter on this side of the bridge to stay in the shadow."

"Would you like me to kiss it to make it better?"

"Stop treating me like a little kid. I'll be all right."

He sat down next to her and gently placed his arm around her shoulder. "I was worried about you. Will it heal?" Abby nodded. "I found a place for us – an abandoned steel mill. I think you'll like it. It's huge! And the windows are already boarded up."

"It sounds great," she said, closing her eyes. Comforted by Owen's embrace, she returned to sleep.

A few hours later, the sun was fully set. Stars peaked through the darkening twilight. Owen shook Abby awake. He was trembling from the cold and stiffness. Misty breath shined in the cooling air. He held her hand in one his and grabbed the garbage bags with all of their belongings with the other.

They walked quietly along the river to the steel mill. The rhythmic tones of the river lapped against the man-made concrete bank. The cold was just a simple excuse. He found himself gripping her hand every chance he could, as though she were an aging child slipping away from his tenderness. But he was the one slipping away; growing older.

The steel mill building must have extended at least three blocks, perpendicular to the river. Owen listened at a remote side door. A "No Trespassing Private Property" sign dangled from one rivet. They jumped when a stray dog scurried past, but all was quiet inside. The door was bolted shut from the inside and chained on the outside.

Using her standard tools of the trade, a rock, Abby broke open the door. He motioned for her to keep quiet as he slowly opened it and peeked into the entry area. He strained, listening intently at the opening. Dripping water echoed in the cavernous mill. Something was fluttering inside.

"Hello," Owen whispered through the opening. He listened for a response, but only heard his voice back in return.

"Let me through, Owen. C'mon!" Abby growled. This was one of the few times Owen was in control, and he wasn't going to abdicate easily. A few more minutes of waiting would not matter to Abby. But if it helped ensure their secrecy, Owen would spend the few minutes.

"Hello," Owen repeated through the door, a little louder this time. With no answer, he stepped through the door and up the concrete stairs. Darkness enveloped him. The stale air smelled dank. An icebox - it was colder inside than out. After allowing a few more minutes to adjust to the darkness, Owen scanned the grand steel mill main production floor. Three city blocks long. The concrete floor was covered in dust and debris. Massive, empty crucibles on twelve inch casters lined the far wall ending in a smokestack kiln. The lack of activity was palpable.

Once again Owen ignored Abby's pleading behind him. He walked toward the center of the massive room. Noise, from accidentally kicking a wooden plank, echoed through the chamber. Motion from the corner of the lofty ceiling startled him. Disturbed by Owen's intrusion, a family of bats flitted around until they settled back down. Abby will feel right at home. Comforted by the desolation, Owen relented. "You can come in, Abby."

"Finally." Abby rushed up the stairs looking around. Exhilarated she bounced around the room. This was a side of Abby that Owen rarely witnessed; nothing like the solemn, withdrawn girl whom he first met; the Abby who allowed herself to become twelve years old again. She disappeared inside one of crucibles – lying down to test it out. She tried several more then moved on to the open furnace door. The kiln echoed with her cry of "Hello in there". Then she moved onto the front side rooms and front offices. Owen laughed, failing to keep pace, but he relished Abby's simple joy.

Their exploration was complete after only a few hours. Off the main mill floor there were a number of smaller, adjoining rooms. Stacks of wooden pallets were stored in an open area under an overhang. Owen thought this would be useful for fires and carried a number of pallets to the factory floor. The carpeted offices covered two stories on one side, but they were emptied of useful supplies. The bathrooms had running water, but only cold – better than he expected. Flushable toilets were a definite plus.

They finally decided to settle into one of the office openings next to the mill floor. Abby used on a roll away trash bin for sleeping; it was smaller and more comfortable than the crucibles. She curled up tightly each morning under a few blankets. Owen preferred the carpet to the concrete and selected the area adjacent to the main mill floor. A steel drum doubled as a fire pit. He settled on the concrete to keep a fire going. Then, he hung a flexible exhaust hose with one end above a barrel and the other duct taped to a window. Smoke was drawn outside, while sunlight could not peek through.

While lying in her bin, Abby woke with a start. "Owen, what's that noise?"

Groggily, Owen shook himself awake. "What noise?" Then he heard it. On the window sill nearby sat a black cat, angrily hissing in Abby's direction. Scraggly hair and scratches were evidence of the prior battle with the orange tabby. "I'll get it." Owen grabbed the cat and carried it to the nearby door. The cat stared at Owen with a protective intensity with a growl emanating from deep within his abdomen. "Goodbye kitty. Don't come back soon."

The next few days, Owen and Abby spruced up their new home, decorating with knick knacks they found on the street. Owen piled the pallets on the concrete floor to provide a steady supply of firewood. He located a pickaxe for splitting the wood.

They fell asleep at dawn. Owen rose in the early afternoon to survey the neighboring town and Abby rose at dusk to begin the cycle anew.

On the weekend, a group of kids enjoyed a soccer match in the back parking lot. He worried that they might discover Abby if they wandered through the mill so he remained, observing the sporting event. Some younger children ran along cheering on their brothers, and several young girls eyed the match with interest. One or two tried to play, but the boys weren't very accepting.

Some of the younger, more curious ones stayed behind when the others left to test a few doors. They were disappointed when they found them locked. It looked like harmless fun, but it felt like an unwanted invasion of their new home. He will have to keep an eye on them. He wedged the sledgehammer under the pushbar of the door with the broken latch. That kept out the explorers.

It was during one of his solitary afternoon adventures when Owen stumbled across a small store called the "Blazing Crescent". Beneath that sign were the words "Gateway to Another Reality". Tired and cold, Owen decided to warm up inside.

The bell tinkled as he opened the door. Bitter incense pervaded the store in a smoky haze. Immediately inside was a rack holding various colored crystals with labels extolling their properties. "Hawk's Eye," one read "Helps you to understand and accept death." _You need a crystal for that?_

Behind the front counter a woman glared in his direction. Middle aged, she wore a plaid flannel shirt, blue jeans, and librarian glasses. Thirty years old was middle aged for Owen, and she was at least that old.

A petite, younger lady bounded toward him, smiling. She swirled while speaking, "My name is Selkie. May I help you?" She wore large rimmed tortoise shell glasses. Her hair was long and dyed black on one side, but trimmed short and bright blue on the other. Her eye shadow matched the black and blue, on contrasting sides from her hair and her lips painted solid black. Several feathers dangled from her right ear; a chain and many studs decorated her left. Wearing a long-sleeve black lace blouse, a bright blue skirt, and thick black hosiery without any shoes she stood on her tiptoes in anticipation of the answer to her ethereal question. "Is there anything the goddess can do you for you today?"

"Are you the goddess?" Owen wondered.

"No, silly!" she smiled. She motioned to the entire room. "The goddess surrounds us. She is in all creation and within us." _This does seem like another reality_.

"In that case, I'll just look around. Thanks." Owen wandered through esoterica. There were shelves of funny smelling candles with strange symbols. They also had incense, herbs, gemstones and many books whose subjects included scrying (_are they sad_?), Egypt, and magick, spelled with a "k". This must be more powerful than magic you see at kids' birthday parties. Watched the entire time by the attentive Mona Lisa behind the counter, he felt protected by his joyful, expectant shadow - Selkie.

Mingled with the completely weird was the absolutely absurd. Cats to sccubi, Seven demons who cause sleep paralysis and steal your breath; Best indications that an apparition is beneficial or evil; Werewolf detection, prevention and cures; Distinctive characteristics of corporeal mists.

"Do you believe in any of this stuff?" Owen asked.

"Who can know?" Selkie shrugged. "We try not to judge one reality from another."

She seemed sincere. Owen decided that it could not hurt to ask. They may never see him again. "Do you know anything about people who crave blood?" he whispered, hoping the stern one at the counter would not overhear.

Selkie skipped toward him. She eyed him quizzically, "What do you mean?"

"Someone who is addicted to blood, human blood." Then he added hastily, "I don't mean me, of course. You know … just in case I ever need it."

"That sounds really strange," Selkie said tapping a finger on her lips. Then her expression brightened. "Oh, you mean like vampires? I love vampires! I have all of Anne Rice's books. I even read one."

"No, no – not that."

"What would you like to know how to protect yourself from them or how to kill them?"

"Neither, do you know how to stop the cravings?"

"I am not sure," Selkie tapped her forefinger to her chin in thought. She yelled to the counter matron. "Jane? Do you know how to cure a vampire?"

"No … ." Owen tingled from doubt at the announcement. _It was a good thing the store is otherwise empty._

Without cracking a smile, Jane chimed back, "You can't cure a vampire. They're already dead."

Selkie looked disappointed at the answer, as though the failure affected her personally. "I'll check with my husband, when I have the chance," Selkie offered. "He can answer all sorts of unusual questions. In the mean time, I would start with a bag of grain." She grabbed a bag of rice from a shelf. "Grain will distract a vampire. It is like a puzzle. They can't help themselves until they finish counting all of the individual grains. You can try a bell and holy rose water, too."

She pulled a small ringing bell and a plastic vial with rose petals inside from another shelf. "The bell can be plenty irritating and the holy rose water may roast out the evil spirits. These will distract the vampire until you can get away. You can gain protection from a blessed, silver crucifix … that's a crucifix, not a cross, or you could make a stake made out of ash. Right, Jane? I don't believe we have silver crucifixes in stock."

None of these items would be helpful, but Owen wanted her to try. Selkie looked genuinely interested in figuring it out, and she was correct about the puzzles. Abby was captivated by her Rubik's Cube. Lost along with most of their possessions. "When do you think your husband will be here?"

"Don't be silly," she chuckled. "He doesn't enter the city."

Jane walked around the counter to intervene. "Her husband is Finvarra, one of the lords of the Fey." Jane shrugged with doubt. "Selkie doesn't find him; he finds her when she camps by Lake Pueblo."

"It's a harmonic convergence zone," Selkie chimed in, as though that would help him understand.

Jane continued, "After a few weeks of camping, surviving on wild mushrooms, Finvarra makes an appearance. I'm not sure you should rely on his advice. The mushrooms are pretty potent around Lake Pueblo." She leaned in to whisper to Owen. "Personally, I think she married a squirrel."

"Don't listen to her," Selkie protested. "Finvarra is beautiful!"

"Selkie, he tried to carry water in a sieve! You can't trust what he tells you."

Owen didn't want to drop the idea. "How much for the grain, bell and rose water?"

Selkie added the sum in her head, "Thirteen ninety-five, plus tax."

Owen counted the money in his pocket, still twelve dollars. He considered the purchase, "I'll come back another day for it. Please check with your husband, when you see him."

Selkie was distracted by some imaginary vision in the air in front of her. She reached inquisitively and seemed startled when she grasped nothing. "Take the rice for now. On me." She handed him a bag with a friendly smile. "Our big day is coming up on the thirty-first. I'll be busy until then, but I'll check with Finvarra afterwards. Open yourself up to another illusion." Selkie said waving. Jane's scowl warned Owen to stay away – or maybe that was her normal expression.

Owen ventured out into the cold to return to his own, bitter reality in his afternoon tour of Pueblo. The city proved to be a fruitful playground. There were all sorts of free supplies, if you knew where to look. He had collected several chairs, towels, and a few partially used bars of soap mostly from trash.

At night, they stayed close to the steel mill, but with each expedition Abby grew more confident.

Downtown, the streetlights exposed late night revelers wandering between the local bars. The city was alive even well past midnight. Owen had never witnessed life like this before. Small towns were usually quiet by early evening. They were nighthawks, like he and Abby.

Owen stared at an older, well dressed man standing on the corner of D Street and Main. He held a book in one hand and pointed to some of the carousers. The man waved his accusatory finger in Owen's direction, "I have looked in the face of evil, and I declared, _you have no power over me!_" He swung the finger back toward several young girls across the street. "You are traveling down the path to hell! You, too, can be saved. Anoint the savior's feet with repentant tears and oil from the alabaster jar. Turn away from sin and licentiousness and embrace the saving power of the Savior! He will forgive you and save you from eternal damnation."

Owen was captivated, but the girls ignored the preacher. He wanted to ask him about the evil he faced. _Could he be a kindred spirit?_

A car stopped at the sides of the street drowning out the preacher's words and blinding Owen with his headlights. One of the girls, wearing stilettos and a skirt too short for the chilly weather, leaned in the car's window. Then she opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat.

Abby tugged on Owen's hand, stirring him from his trance, "Quit staring at the pretty ladies." She grinned and added, "If you really like one of them, perhaps we could invite her over for dinner."

Owen grimaced at Abby's jealous, mocking tone. This kind of humor was a little morbid for her. "Don't joke like that Abby. It isn't funny."

"I was just trying to lighten things up," she said.

Owen pulled her closer and chuckled. "It was a little funny."

One morning Abby surprised Owen by lying down to sleep with him. It was the morning after Owen discovered a queen-size mattress discarded in the street. It smelled damp and gross from being out in the rain, but he preferred it to carpet covered concrete. Abby helped haul it to the steel mill under the cover of darkness. Another night, he discovered a few extra blankets left next to a donation bin. The blue synthetic blanket was tattered and torn, but still comfortable – the red wool one was an incredible find. The mill began to feel like a home.

That morning, as a reward for finding the mattress or, perhaps in search of companionship, Abby crawled in next to Owen under his blankets. He was never quite sure why she chose to leave her cradle on those few occasions, but he cherished the closeness.

She offered a comfort that her iciness couldn't bury. The softness of her body nestled next to his felt right. She gently caressed his cheek, and then reached up and kissed him on his lips. He knew the kiss was wrong, but it was an innocent twelve-year-old sort of kiss. He craved that softness of her lips and wanted more. He understood the indecency, but the kiss harkened back to nourishment for which he was so desperate. He held her body close to his and tore his lips away.

Dampness stinging his eyes, Owen fought his affectionate impulses. Conversation was a comfortable, safe avenue. He pined for information to help him understand her. He held her close and asked, "Abby, where are you from?"

Abby's looked inward, searching her memory.

"I was born in New France," she answered in nearly a whisper, "near Louisbourg. I was named for my Uncle. I've never told you about him?" She asked.

"No," Owen said. "I never asked. Please, I want to know."

Abby continued, "My father admired and adored his older brother. Even as a child, I couldn't understand why." Owen pushed her long, light-brown hair behind her ears as she spoke. "He was an angry man who despised the British with a virulent hatred. An important leader in the territories, he invited my father to settle as a trapper and an administrator."

He studied the innocent motion of her mouth while she relayed her story. The flow of Abby's lips was intoxicating. Captivated by their shimmer he nearly missed the story altogether. They were only a few inches from his. He was tempted to kiss her again, but that would be ruder than it would be indecent. Her cool breath tickled his chin as she spoke. Today she smelled like a mix of carnations and honeysuckle. In the midst of their squalor and poverty, she was content.

Blissfully unaware of Owen's desire, Abby continued, "As long as I can remember my uncle was consumed by blood lust. He led the Mi'kmaqs and Acadians on dozens of raids against British settlements and rewarded the Indians for every British scalp they collected. The British told stories of the devil incarnate, and they were right. Convinced that the British were hunting for him, he persuaded my father to exchange places. My father was captured off of the coast, and I never saw him again. I was eleven when Uncle Jean-Louis replaced him.

"He bragged that he started the Seven-Year War with England. A world-wide conflict and he took credit. During the war he participated in regular raids of British settlements throughout the New France and New England using our house as his base of operations. My mother lived in fear for when he returned. She was happy when he chose to sleep in the barn."

She paused as though the painful memories were fresh. Owen felt her hesitance. He didn't say a word. He simply tried to imagine her as calm, and she was.

"One night, after the war ended, my mother's fears were realized. The British had all but won, the natives could no longer be compelled to attack them, and my uncle's blood lust was no longer satisfied. Leaving my mother in tears he carried me to the barn. I was always his favorite, or so he told me. Symbols were burned into the stalls. The chants, the incense, the desire all served to unbalance me until I was powerless. I thought that I would be enough to satisfy his thirst, but he was only just beginning."

By this point Abby was near tears. Her voice had grown quiet and her odor became more rancid. "Horrified by the screams, my brother, Gaspar, came to check on my safety. Completely drained of blood, I needed nourishment quickly. The shovel Gaspar wielded was no match for my uncle. I thought he would repeat the ritual with him, but when he cut his arm I lost control. I don't even remember killing him. But I remember my uncle's laughter."

Owen pulled her close. This close, he knew her thoughts as though they were his own. More than two centuries gone, and she remained terrified of that memory. He closed his eyes and tried to project calm. After a few minutes she continued, speaking into Owen's chest. "I'm sorry to trouble you. I won't burden you with my past anymore." She was worried for him. This was her own private hell that she expected to keep it buried.

Owen leaned back and lifted her chin. Contemplating her gray-green eyes, he said, "No Abby, don't worry about me. I wanted to know." He longed to understand more of her past, but now was not the time. There was one question he couldn't shake. "I don't understand something. You said you were named for your uncle. Why isn't your name Jean?"

It was getting later in the morning, Abby yawned in her tiredness. Laying her head in the crook of Owen's arm, she answered quietly, "The French word for 'Father' is 'Abbè'. He was a missionary – a priest. It was his title. My full name is Abigail – Father's joy."

That afternoon Owen woke to the angry hissing of the black sentinel from his perch on the windowsill. _How did he get back in here_?


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Halloween

October 31, 1988

**Tony Sacco**

After nine years on the force Officer Tony Sacco despised Halloween. Hooligans and vandals were problem enough. This year he was also haunted by the specter of a contentious local election. Today's battlefield arose on the steps of city hall. The Republicans held the high ground against a small crowd of counter protesters arrayed across a fortified Maginot line constructed from yellow-colored sawhorses and a half dozen members of Pueblo's finest.

Four years of straight A's in high school topped with being co-captain of the varsity football team taught Tony that life was easy. Failing after two years of engineering at Colorado Institute of Technology taught him a more important lesson – he was a first class underachiever. He should be well on his way to sergeant after ten years; instead, he was content with his life as a patrol cop. Working with the neighborhoods was satisfaction enough, along with the simplicity of his life with his high school sweetheart, Aileen.

Another joy, and sometimes misery, was his troubled, adopted son, Javier, rescued from social services after losing his family in a traffic accident. Tony had trouble balancing the need to be a father with the need to be a friend. He wasn't very good at the disciplinary requirements of the role.

When he had the chance, he escaped into his weekend benediction – watching his beloved Denver Broncos who, this year, were mired in their own mediocrity. Stiff competition for promotion within the police force interfered with these simple joys. He wasn't interested.

Today, he petitioned for the day shift so that he could enjoy tonight's Monday Night Football clash with the Colts. Beer and chicken wings beckoned. For now, donned in his pressed winter uniform, he defended the political neutral zone. Barring greater than the usual Halloween disturbances he should enjoy a great evening.

His closest friend on the force, Roberto Prindle, guarded his right flank. A Samoan giant, who shared Tony's football passion. He even started on the defensive line at Colorado State. A bum knee kept him out of the professional level, so he claimed. He retreated to his degree in criminal justice.

Equipped with the formidable might of words, the crowd advanced carrying signs with messages such as _It's illegal to be an illegal_; _Don't let the fence hit you on the way out; AIDS is not a disease, it's a cure_; and _On November 8th Return America to Americans_.

The meager opposition returned fire with _Read my lips:_ _No New Republicans_; _Illegal Immigration is Not a New Problem, Natives Used to Call it WHITE PEOPLE_; _You are NO Jack Kennedy;_ and _I'm With Stupid_.

Safeguarded by his microphone phalanx, Rufus T. Barleysmith, city councilman and mayoral candidate assaulted the opposition. With a gray goatee, a bow tie, and wire-rimmed spectacles he looked like he just stepped off of a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket. "This election you have a choice - a choice to thrive or a choice to perish," he bellowed. "We have a choice to protect the American way of life or to enslave it. Make no mistake about it… we are still at war. Now it is an economic and social war. Foreigners are invading our cities and taking our jobs. Every job taken by an illegal is taken from an American."

The crowd punctuated every statement with a chorus of cheers. The speaker soaked in the acclaim. He continued, even bolder than before, "Now even Pueblo suffers from the invasion of deviants. Our hospitals are filled with examples of such deprivation. Lack of proper, American values is destroying the very fiber of our culture. It is time to return America to the Americans!"

The opposition responded with muted boos. One person tried to start a counter chant, but they were overwhelmed by the force of the Republican crowd. Today the field and the glory belonged to the aggressor. In a little over a week the square will return to polite, post-election dreariness. The speakers had droned on for hours, but Barleysmith was the grand finale for the day.

Late afternoon, the armies dispersed leaving the scraps to a few carrion scavengers. Several people remained behind to offer congratulations and make specific pleas. Barleysmith was practiced at compassionate listening without offering commitments. This was always a great opportunity for reminding the faithful of their obligation to participate in government through judicious campaign contributions. Tony and the other officers loaded the temporary barriers into the police van restoring the battlefield to normalcy.

With less than an hour remaining in their shift, Tony and Roberto decided to enjoy the brisk fall day by patrolling the River Walk area. Across Main Street, but a world away, this oasis within the city was often a target for pickpockets and would be graffiti artists. A simple reminder of police presence was usually all that was necessary to keep the mayhem under control. _Who would replace this with desk work_? Before long he was cruising into the drive through of Bob's Wing House in preparation for the big game.

Tony used a spare bedroom as a workout room. He liked to keep in peak football condition, just in case the Broncos ever needed him. Aileen left to escort Javier around the neighborhood in his Donatello costume – the turtle, not the artist. Tony didn't understand Aileen's complete indifference to the finer aspects of football strategy, but she allowed him this vice.

After a quick shower he reheated his wings for one minute in the Amana microwave. He seized a frosty mug from the freezer for his Coors. Parking himself in front of the television in his private sanctuary left him with plenty of time to catch the opening analysis. Dan Dierdorff wasted air time with simple-minded predictions such as "This battle will be won in the trenches." Al Michaels detailed the importance of this mid-season match-up for the playoff hopes of each team. John Elway on the Broncos and Eric Dickerson on the Colts created a classic contest of football juggernauts – just like last week.

The doorbell rang. _Who would be visiting at this time of night?_ Tony opened the door to a pair of pint sized Thundercats screaming "Trick or Treat!" A good thing Aileen had the foresight to leave a bowl of assorted chocolates next to the door. As soon as Tony sat down, the door bell rang again. This time Strawberry Shortcake couldn't decide between a Milky Way or Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. Tony urged her to take both – quickly. Scanning the street, Tony noticed that they neighborhood was infested with costumed critters. He returned to his throne just in time for the opening kickoff. _They should consider moving Halloween away from Monday Night Football. _ This was, of course, when his Motorola pager chose to vibrate. Duty calls.

After changing into a fresh uniform, he left a note for his wife telling her he was back on duty. With luck, he'll be back for the second half. Javier may need to spend another night with his grandmother when Aileen left for her shift at the hospital Emergency Room. _Damn, I hate Halloween._

**Owen**

The strange girl at that strange store was right; the rice was an incredible success! The other night Owen casually spilled the rice on the floor. Abby dropped down and counted each and every one of the 348 grains, even the ones that slid under the mattress. It took less than thirty seconds, but she seemed unaware of what she was doing. Once the counting was complete, she continued with the evening as though the rice never existed. It was not the help that Owen wished for, but he had not given the saleslady much credit. She was sort of a nut case. Now he just had to find enough money for the bell and the vial of holy water.

It was well after one o'clock on Halloween afternoon by the time he woke. In the darkness of their wool covered cave, he gazed at Abby resting quietly next to him. Like most mornings, she had pulled the blankets over her head for added darkness. These sleeping arrangements of the last few nights continued to make Owen uncomfortable, but he wasn't complaining. Her tainted odor was growing staler; it poisoned the air under the blanket. The restful peace was not going to last much longer.

Owen taught himself the daily waste hauling schedule and the locations with best opportunities for plunder. He grew at ease with life in the city. Surrounded by people, he remained all but invisible. He found apples and a cucumbers at the grocery store trash bin, but he needed some additional supplies that weren't available from Dumpster diving.

As with most days, Owen needed to acquire a little more money. The park by the city center was great, but he normally could only pander for a few moments before the police forced him to leave. Today ushered a huge crowd around the city buildings, and crowds made Owen nervous. Congested with families and children, the park was uninviting. Most parents steered their children away from him with an aggravated stare. A few were nice. One person gave him three pennies. _Thanks - jerkwad_. He collected over a dollar before a young man demanded he "get a job!" He decided to move on.

On his way to more verdant begging pastures, Owen passed through a back alley short cut. A cat, attracted by the scents of the nearby Asian restaurant, splashed through an oily puddle in panic from Owen's approach. Laundry clanged against the fire escape of a third story apartment. He wondered whether any of the clothes would fit Abby.

Three rowdy teenagers entered Owen's private abyss. Loud, with gold chains and expensive sneakers, he knew their type. Turning over trashcans and abusing strangers were their idea of a good time. The three of them shared a can of Miller beer.

Owen shifted to the side of the alley to avoid their turbulence and glared. He was just another trashcan in their alley of fun. "Look at this dipshit. Hey jerkabite, you can't beg here." Together the three of them pummeled him. They shoved him face first into the alley puddles and then stomped him in the ribs. Old memories resurfaced. He kicked and fought back, returning bruises for his scrapes. Fifteen dollars ripped from his pants pocket was the reward for their trouble. His head pounded from the collision with the ground.

Dammit, he needed that money! He pounded the ground with his fist splashing the puddle. He suppressed his frustration at the loss. Sitting up, he closed his eyes, and calmed himself. _It won't do any good to get angry – she'll know_. Four kids are dead from my screams_. I'll take care of these idiots – in my own time._

He placed elbows on the top of his knees and leaned forehead to concentrate. He had been in worse situations. A few more days and he can replace the money.

When he opened his eyes, an Asian man, just a few feet away, startled him. He crouched to Owen's level and studies his injuries. "Are you all right? Should I get some help?" He placed an ice pack on his wounded forehead.

"I'm okay," Owen answered. And he was. Unrequited kindness and distractions of revenge breeds such optimism. "Are you a Samaritan?"

In broken English, with a compassionate smile, the Asian cook answered, "No, I'm Chinese. I don't even know where Samarita is." He introduced himself as Mr. Hui and helped him to his feet. Owen rinsed his hands in the puddle and wiped them on his pants. The cook bandaged his facial scrapes, and told Owen to keep the ice pack. Owen thanked him. He checked his ribs – bruised, not broken – and left for the next begging spot.

His wounds garnered more sympathy. He must have looked pathetic. Within a half an hour, he had replaced the stolen money and then some. Off to the nearby Woolworth's for basic necessities: soap, toilet paper, shampoo, a bucket, a towel, and chlorine bleach. It had been rough without the toilet paper. He thought a package of butane lighters would come in handy, as well. Carrying all of the purchases in his bucket, he headed to the "Blazing Crescent."

Owen entered the door with a tinkling of the bell. He smelled the familiar incense odor. Sitar music played over the sound system. Selkie bounded forward with her smile. "My name is Selkie. Is there anything the goddess can do for you today?" _Was she for real?_ He shopped there less than a week ago.

"You remember, this is Owen," Mona Lisa answered with a heavy sigh from behind the counter. Somehow she was able to keep her eyes on Owen without looking up from her paperwork. "He is looking for the holy rose water and bell. You're supposed to ask Finvarra about him on your next Lake Pueblo vigil."

"Of course," Selkie said. She located the bell and holy water bottle with rose petals inside. "That will be seven ninety-five."

"Really? I thought it was more last time."

Selkie scratched her head, "Oh that's right. That will be ten ninety-five."

"You should put price tags on the items. Then I could help you with the math," Owen suggested.

"Seven ninety-five is fine," Mona Lisa intervened. "Plus tax."

Owen studied the items up at the register. "There's no water in the holy water bottle."

"You have to go to the church and dip it in one of their fonts," Selkie informed him.

"Then why do I need a special bottle?" Owen wondered.

"Don't be silly. This one has 'Holy Water' written on it. It has green ice rose petals inside – very rare and magical."

That made sense. He handed Mona Lisa nine dollars and received his change. He had over four dollars left. Maybe he would splurge on some hot food tomorrow. It was time to be getting back to Abby. Dusk was approaching.

**Jane Mosi**

Jane was as uncomfortable with the arcane as her sister was with reality. Closing the books for the last day of the month, she was satisfied with their first profit for the year. Blazing Crescent wasn't the most successful business model in town, but she could count on the Halloween season to bring in casual shoppers. They catered to the bizarre, but nobody was more unusual than this boy.

She held a number of significant relics of the spirit world, but this time of year the plastic knockoffs sold best. It was the stories she could weave that sold the trinkets. Truthfully, Selkie was a much better storyteller and salesperson. She had the advantage of believing this nonsense. When the need arose, Jane could spin a believable yarn.

Jane was a little bit of manufactured fraud herself. Thirty years ago she was born to parents who were hippies long before it was fashionable. Her father claimed that she was born old, and she believed him. Thirteen years her junior, Selkie was a generation apart. Her father continued to raise them both after their mother abandoned them.

Jane's given name, "Mabinogia" or "Mab" did not escape the notice of her brutal schoolmates as the queen of the faeries. _What a ridiculous name! _As soon as she was of age, she chose a name as plain as possible. Her younger sister was different. She embraced the family eccentricity.

The old wooden frame shop door creaked open and the bell tinkled indicating that a new customer was entering the store. Jane was about to answer with "We're closed." when she noticed Selkie bounding across the floor flinging her arms around the customer. "Rufus!" she shouted grabbing him tightly around the neck nearly bowling him over. Selkie's colors were orange and black for the holiday.

Barleysmith pecked Selkie on the forehead and patted her lightly on the back. "We need to find you a young man."

"Are you asking Rufus?" Selkie asked coyly.

"Let me check with my wife." Rufus rolled his eyes backward into his skull and positioned both middle fingers on his temples. It was an unusual talent of his that he could work to great effect while presiding over sacred ceremonies. "She says not right now, but maybe after the election."

"How was today's rally?" Jane offered trying to steer the conversation away from Selkie. Barleysmith was the arch druid in their Pueblo ceremonial coven. He was also a devout Methodist. While he failed to see any contradiction between these diverse faiths, he understood the religious front required for his political aspirations. More importantly for Jane, she knew Rufus since she was a child. After their mother's disappearance, Rufus helped their father become established in the city many years ago. He lent him the money for the occult book store, helped him find a location, and referred customers. For this, despite his gruff political rhetoric, Jane considered him a friend.

"I already have a husband anyway," Selkie echoed back. "I'm sorry you missed the ceremony. We held it in the Faerie Forest celebrated by Oberon himself."

"The rally was fruitful and profitable. Thank you for asking." He turned to Selkie. "I was referring to something recognized on this plane of existence. Speaking of ceremonies, are you and your sister coming to the Samhain? We're serving my special avocado and angelica root vegetable dip." Barleysmith's mansion held a full-fledged ceremonial room altar and a stone arch in the basement – a symbolic gateway to communicate with the afterlife. Many of the annual festivities of the arcane were held there. Since he was their friend and best customer, Jane humored him and attended all of their celebrations. "My herb and candle inventories are running low."

"Of course we are coming. I've been brewing the ginger beer for days," Selkie answered. "We should conduct the service in the nude just as the goddess intended!"

"No, I'd rather not," Jane interrupted a little too quickly. The image of Rufus naked was a Halloween horror that she wished to forget. Changing the subject she added, "What do you need today, Rufus?"

He provided Jane with a list. She happily went about collecting the items while Selkie and Rufus continued their chitchat. With the sudden loss of their father, Jane was left to care for her younger sister. Scraping through the Reagan years, they were able to pay off their loans. They now owned the shop outright and lived in a small upstairs apartment. With a few extra dollars, Jane broadened the store's breadth beyond books, which brought in a few more, if not stranger customers - like that boy.

She had thought of him many times since he first arrived a few days ago, almost to the point of obsession. Customers often entered the store confused with fear. A strange knocking noise in their house needed a blessing that she would happily provide. This boy was different. He was quiet and edgy, and his request was precise: a cure for someone who craves blood. She was sure that a psychotherapist would be more appropriate, but he did not seem the type to be able to afford one. Meanwhile, she would sell him the trinkets that may stave off his psychoses, especially if there was a profit in it. She would feel a little less guilty if he was not spending his every dollar to do so.

"Here are your items, Rufus."

He paid with a credit card, "Feel free to show up as soon as you get the chance. Elizabeth should have the house ready by now." Jane handed him a bag with the items carefully placed to prevent damage, and Barleysmith left after a farewell peck on Selkie's cheek.

Jane counted the money and closed the register for the day. She adjusted the books for the final change in the monthly revenue including the count for this last transaction. Her and Selkie grabbed their ceremonial robes and departed for an alternate reality in Rufus' basement. It promised to be an interesting evening with the arcane.

**Tony Sacco**

In a fresh uniform, Tony drove his patrol car to the disturbance at Club Fusion, one of the city's homosexual clubs. The Republican faithful mobilized after their pep rally this afternoon deciding on action rather than words. Club Fusion was the nearest available representation of society's deviance. On-duty police were busy with Halloween distractions all over the city. Off-duty officers were needed to calm the situation.

Tony pulled into the Club Fusion parking lot with sirens blaring at the same time as Roberto. They exited their cars, leaving their lights flashing. It didn't make much difference. Their lights were swallowed by the brilliance of the blinking displays advertising the Halloween Extravaganza. They nodded to each other and strode toward the front entrance trying to maintain an intimidating presence. One other officer was already on the scene – Jesse Corrle, a 140-pound, babyish rookie; so much for intimidating.

A crowd of thirty or more protesters gathered around the entrance way. Most screamed a wide variety of epithets. "Go back to San Francisco ya fuckin' faggot" was a common theme. The mob pressed against the patrons and the owner dressed in their Halloween regalia. Two of the patrons were in full drag, egging on the masses by posing provocatively. They responded with equally vulgar comments like "Go back to where you came from – last century". In the middle, trying his best to keep the sides separated, was little Jesse Corrle.

The two arriving officers pressed between the crowds. "I'm glad you guys are finally here," Corrle said. "I called this in nearly an hour ago." Prindle and Sacco, with their football player physiques, were more imposing.

"We are glad you saved some of this enjoyment for us. Looks like you had everything well in hand." When they got a little closer, he noticed a few scrapes on Corrle.

"Very funny. This is serious. These guys are out of control."

The swarm was rank with the smell of beer and sweat. Roberto took charge. "Everyone break this up! It's time to go home!" His deep bass voice resonated throughout the scene; he didn't even need a megaphone. The crowd was only mildly affected by the challenge. Drawing their batons, the officers used them to separate the factions.

The owner of Club Fusion, Charlie Langston in a Boy George costume, yelled in Tony's direction. His eyes bulged with anger, "These guys are trespassing! This is private property. What are you guys going to do about it? They are ruining my business. I want them all arrested."

"Let us handle it!" Tony argued. He might have been more sympathetic, if some of Charlie's side didn't seem to be enjoying the attention.

The crowd was growing as people kept arriving. Both groups swelled with reinforcements. New arrivals had to park in the streets and on the grass while a crowd of spectators lingered. The mob swelled to at least a dozen Club Fusion customers and more than fifty protesters. In the background, Reverend Fletcher arrived to encourage the protesters. Standing on a cinder block he shouted, "You can't silence our freedoms! The power of God comes before the rights of man. You are the face of evil and you must repent! Your depravity is the disease infesting this city." Each statement was punctuated with a pointed finger.

"Are you sure we're not on the wrong side of this fight?" Roberto asked. "Maybe we should just let them go at it and clean up afterwards."

Tony knew Roberto was trying to lighten the tension. "We're not on any side ... remember?" He was missing the Bronco's game for these shenanigans.

The pushing and shoving became more agitated. Tony was happy to see an unfamiliar, powerfully built, police officer arrive until he realized that the force doesn't authorize black Spandex uniforms. This new police officer grabbed the first protester he saw by the arm and slugged him solidly in the chin. The protester dropped to the cheer and laughter of the onlookers. Several nearby activists attacked the newcomer. In anticipation of the pending violence, the fake police officer grinned. Roberto blew his whistle ineffectually while Tony bulldozed through the multitudes to intercept the tussle.

A Marlboro Man, complete with leather chaps, let loose a demonic laugh that pierced through the crowd noise. He leaned back and hocked a gob of spit into the crowd using the force of his body to propel the projectile further. "Take that! I have AIDS you mother fuckin' jackasses!"

Those in the crowd closest to the spittle landing quieted down and stared with disgust at the recipient. Stunned, Tony just gaped along with them. The glob slid down his face. AIDS – this was so much more than disgusting. Marlboro Man launched another salvo. He heard Officer Corrle quietly wondering, "Can you catch AIDS through spit? I read they found HIV in saliva."

Tony and Roberto turned to face the bar patrons. Ignoring the fight in progress, Tony addressed the cowboy directly, "Dammit, cut it out, or I'll take you in." A third volley struck Roberto directly on his ear. "Aw, shit," he whispered.

"He said 'cut it out'!" Roberto yelled. The cowboy continued to cackle uncontrollably. That was all that was needed for Roberto to lose his temper. With his baton already out, Roberto attacked, pounding the Marlboro Man on the head with several heavy blows.

The first strike dislodged the cowboy hat which blew away, twisting in the wind. The third strike drew blood. On the backstroke, the baton carried the blood spatter away from the bar patron and flung it skywards. The crowd drew a collective inward breath as they grasped the implications of this airborne viral poison. All eyes were drawn to the flight. At the top of the arc, the droplets hung momentarily, suspended against the background of the sky. The pure image of the moon was tainted red before the inevitable pull of gravity dragged the blood back toward the crowd. The toxic fluid completed its trajectory squarely on Officer Tony Sacco's face; _Ungh._

Squeezing his eyes shut, Tony wiped the blood from his eyelid. He opened them to verify the source of the moisture. "Oh, you fucker," he whispered. His suppressed anger rose to the attack. He tackled the cowboy and wrestled him to the ground. He forcefully pulled the cowboy's hands behind his back and cuffed them. The cowboy kept laughing. "You're under arrest for attempted murder."

The laughing cowboy, his face pressed against the sidewalk responded, "Are you fuckin' kidding? What are you going to do? Put me in jail for the rest of my life. Do you really think these assholes can take anything from me?"

Another police cruiser pulled up to the street outside the bar with its lights flashing. Out of the loud speaker came, "This area is in police custody. Please depart the scene."

With the cowboy under control, Tony yelled to his partners. "Roberto, this demonstration is over," The crowd began to disperse on their own. "Jesse, make a call into dispatch, let them know about the incident and request a few ambulances." Tony then turned to the Club Fusion owner, "You need to close this down tonight."

"It's Halloween! Our busiest night of the season. You can't shut us down."

"You can try to find a sympathetic judge at this hour, but I think you will have to wait until tomorrow. By then the paper should be filled with a description of your patrons injuring citizens and police alike with contaminated saliva." Tony waited for this truth to sink in. "You'll be lucky to open again, ever, with that type of press."

"You can't catch AIDS with spit," the owner protested. The blood on Tony's face was another story.

**Javier Sacco**

Abandoned again, eleven year old Javier scanned the television channels as the woman, who was not his real grandmother, slept on the sofa. Times like these he missed his real family - lost in the auto accident when he was seven. His adoptive parents were nice and all, but Javier was a burden for whom they barely had time. Aileen, his 'mother,' worked odd hours at the hospital and Tony, his 'father,' was always on call at the police force. Tony was a little too openly contemptuous of Pueblo's Mexican population. Nobody except his teachers seemed to care if he completed his homework. Once again, he avoided it.

With nothing on the TV, he had already demolished over half of his Halloween haul. Feeling a little sick, Javier thought this would be a great time to take an evening stroll. "You don't mind if I go out, do you grandma?" Javier asked. "If you do, let me know and I'll stay home." She answered him with a quiet snore. Javier donned his winter jacket and slipped outside.

This was the true freedom Javier craved – no chores, no worries and no responsibilities. He may get grounded if his parents got home before he did, but they usually didn't. Even if he was grounded, it was only until the next time he stayed with his grandmother. His foster parents could be very forgiving when Javier acted so sweetly innocent.

Javier traveled the streets, searching for ways to satisfy his eager boredom. His fingers itched when he found a rock in the street. He bounced it in his hands for a few blocks. The weight and balance were just right. He found a shop window which would be perfect. The craft shop had been closed for months. The front window, once ideal for viewing a wide variety of craft items, begged for his attention. "Please hit me," it said.

Javier stood in front of the giant plate glass window. The shelves behind it were cluttered with dust and debris. His imagination ran wild in anticipation of the impending destruction. It was late, but a few people were still wandering the street. The wait only increased his enthusiasm for the wicked exploit.

The streets finally cleared. Javier hauled back and threw the rock. The window shattered over the shelf and the street. The glorious crash demolished the silence, echoing through the darkness. A thousand pieces of crystal glittered in the streetlight – beautiful! But all too brief. Javier ascended carefully into the window box, avoiding the knifelike shards of glass. He gathered the rock in his hands imagining the locations of other available large windows.

That was where the patrol car found him. _Shit!_ He will be grounded for sure, this time.

**Aileen Sacco**

Aileen held the hand of her fussy patient. A tube flooded his eye filled with anti-viral solutions. Every few minutes she added Lidocaine drops to diminish the pain. Throughout the years, her husband's raised a near-paralyzing worry of gunshot wounds or knifings. Each time an officer entered through those doors lent credence to her fears. For some reason the uncertainty of this virus seemed infinitely worse.

"When will I know if the infection has taken hold?" Tony asked. His quiet voice quivered,

How could she answer that question? Tony trusted her. "We won't know for about six months," She said clinically. "We can't even conduct the test."

"Six months?" Tony squeezed her hand more tightly. The water flowing out of his eyes prevented her from seeing his expression. "Why so long?"

"The virus has to breed, before it can be detected." Aileen caressed his arm. The strength in the arms was a comfort, but this strength won't help him now. "New and more accurate test methods are being developed."

"What will we do until then?"

"Don't worry, we'll manage." Aileen did not even know if the anti-viral solution would kill the HIV.

Doctor Webb opened the curtain to the Emergency Room bed. "I think that should be enough of the fluid. How's the patient doing?"

"Frustrated," Aileen answered.

"I'm right here, you know. I can answer for myself," Tony interjected. "I'm frustrated."

Doctor Webb told Aileen that her replacement arrived - she can leave with her husband when he is discharged. The doctor wriggled the flush tube out of Tony's eye. Aileen wiped off the excess flushing water that collected on Tony's torso while Tony kept his eyes clamped shut allowing the pain to dissipate.

Roberto Prindle poked his head behind the curtain. "Our 'attempted-murder' suspect is all bandaged up. I'm just about ready to take him down to the station for booking. How's this patient doing?"

"I'm frustrated, dammit!"

Roberto added, "Aileen you have a telephone call at the reception area. It's from dispatch. They have your son down at the station."

_That's just great_, Tony thought as he lay there recovering. This tops off a wonderful night. Tony heard the television news from the waiting room. Eric Dickerson ran roughshod over the porous Broncos defense. The Colts destroyed the Broncos. _The perfect conclusion to the evening!_

**Owen**

As important as the daytime routine had become, Owen lived for the clear evenings. Dead during the day, the city came alive once again. He rejoiced in exploring the city with Abby. After leaving their steel mill asylum, Abby decided to investigate the rooftops. Sometimes she wanted to avoid him, especially as her cravings strengthened. He kept pace on the sidewalk.

The streets bustled with many people dressed in costume. Even the streetwalkers joined in the fun, attired as slinky cats or maids. On top of the tallest building in town Abby signaled, "Owen you have to come up here!" Ten stories up, he could barely hear her.

"How? I can't get up there."

"Around back there's a fire escape."

Owen walked around the alley. There was a fresh Dumpster from the restaurant next door. There may be some leftovers.

Abby called down from the fire escape while Owen was nibbling on partially eaten fried chicken strips. They were a little spicy for Owen's palate. "Over here Owen!" She lowered the ladder to the fire escape. He scurried up and followed her up the stairs. Never embarrassed for her help, Abby hauled him up on the roof. He could not climb to the roof alone, but she could. It was that simple.

Atop the tall bank building opened Owen up to a new reality. Gravel crunched as they strolled along the chilly paradise. In the shadow of the moon, mountains glowed in the distance. Coyotes from as far away as the Pueblo Zoo were heard yipping above the traffic noise.

Ten stories high the sporadic wind gusts were fierce. Walking toward the building edge, Owen trembled from the cold. He took strength in Abby's confidence, but he felt safer when they sat with their legs dangling. Radiant in the moonlight, Abby's eyes twinkled to the tune of the stars. Down below costumed party-goers wandered the street. Their dissonant joy was infectious, and the pair could participate from a distance. It was like observing the neighborhood with a telescope. Owen said, "Happy Halloween. Since you don't know your birthday, I guess this is your special day."

"This is a special day," Abby said beaming. "We should try some other rooftops. I wonder if the view is different."

To keep himself warm, Owen pulled Abby close. "Another night, little moon shadow. Let's just enjoy this view." They sat up there for hours watching the people and discussing their outfits. They gave awards to their favorite costumes. Owen granted special recognition for the best vampire, but stopped when he noticed Abby was not participating.

As the bars closed and the crowds began to fade, the conversation become more strained. Owen turned his thoughts to other questions. "Abby," he wondered, "what do you dream of?"

She paused, collecting her thoughts. "I try not to dream. Mine are mostly nightmares."

"I mean, what do you long for? Do you wish that you could feel the warmth of the sun?"

"Why would I wish for that? Do you wish that you could stick your arm in acid?"

"No," Owen answered. This conversation was not going the way he hoped. He held on tight to Abby to keep them from drifting apart. As he grew older, he feared there would be fewer moments such as these.

Abby held Owen's hand and said more quietly, wistfully, "There is something that I long for. It's tough to explain. I wish…." She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. "I wish that I knew the urgency of growing old. It is different than the constant fear of discovery. It is the knowledge that every day counts because every day will be different. I live every day at twelve, but I wish that I could live one day at eighteen, a day at nineteen, and even a day at fifty." She turned and looked at Owen, "It would be a wonderful thing – growing old." Buried within that wish was a desire for her to grow old with him.

With that one declaration, Abby acknowledged Owen's greatest fear: the slowly widening chasm of their diverging ages. "There is another choice. I could stay young with you."

Abby pulled back angrily. She seemed stunned by the suggestion. "You must think I'm a monster." She shook her head, contemptuously. Her voice grew deeper and angrier. "I won't do it. Don't ask me to change you - never again," she demanded. "Do you think I could hate you that much?" She quieted to a whisper, "Do you think I'm my uncle?"

Disappointed by her reaction, Owen hugged her close. "I won't ask it again. Whatever happened to your uncle?"

"After Canada, we terrorized rural New England. We moved around a lot using my father's trapping tent during the day or the homes of our victims. We finally settled in the plains with the Iowa tribe. For a time they protected us as mystical beings … almost gods. My uncle demanded regular sacrifices. One night, they rebelled. They allowed me to escape, but overwhelmed my uncle in his long house. I never saw him again." Her eyes grew withdrawn and distant. She whispered, "except for my nightmares."

With nothing more to discuss, the conversation waned. They continued to watch people from their rooftop perch. The crowds were noticeably thinner than before, and they were more intoxicated than excited. Abby grew quieter. The wind shifted in his direction and carried the putrid smell of decay. Owen feared this odor. Through his jacket he felt the rumbling of a throaty growl. Abby leaned over the eave toward a wavering group of four guys below.

One of the revelers had a bandage pressed against his head – like he was in a fight. The fresh smell of blood. But she wouldn't be able to stop at just one.

"Abby, stop. Come back to me," Owen implored. He stilled himself to calm. Abby stared at him with bright blue eyes. Her skin was covered in sores and boils. "Please, Abby. Not now. Let's return to the mill. We'll find you some food tomorrow."

Abby's eyes faded to a dull green, her skin cleared, but it was an illusion. The specter of her hunger remained. They returned to the mill for the rest of the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The Dreads

November 1, 1988

**Owen**

Owen was supposed to be her guardian, her protector. He loathed leaving Abby unattended each day, yet he needed to satisfy his own hunger. Despite the nourishment he mined from Pueblo's discards, the gnawing ache within his stomach was a persistent reminder that he never had enough. Each day he deserted Abby in search of food and money – longing for some faint sparkle of hope.

Undeterred by the daunting size of Pueblo, Owen remained upbeat. He grew comfortable with many areas of the city. Other areas he learned to avoid when unarmed. Rich with new experiences, yet he had only explored a small part. He rediscovered his pleasure of watching other people from afar. Laughing, playing, arguing … the vibrant community of Pueblo; these were the people who fanned his shimmering desire for normalcy.

On the opposite bank of the river from hope, lay fear and worry. Lying awake on his mattress, Owen's thoughts wandered to the gloomy precipice. Abby's urgent cravings required fulfillment … tonight. She expected Owen to help; she _needed_ Owen to help. The torture of her hunger crippled him. He dreaded these nights as he dreaded Abby's agony.

Hope is the acrid candle that burns within. Despite adversity, around every corner dwells the promise of a new optimism. Like a flickering candle, hope can be deceitful and destructive or it can be a godsend. Sometimes fate unearths the faint, false hope of a miracle cure; other times it flares into a blazing fire of kindness and charity. As long as this quiet ember glows orange, Owen perseveres in hopeful bliss. But today, Owen's candle burned low. Today, Abby was hungry.

With the idyllic period in Pueblo coming to an end, Owen endured a troubled sleep on his cold, lonely mattress. Abby slept in her bin swathed in most of their blankets. She had known for days what Owen chose to ignore. The signs had been apparent. With sunken eyes and decaying skin, Abby was wasting away. Like a tiny candle struggling against the nightfall, Owen could not wish away her horrific cravings. Through closeness and feigned joy, she had been keeping Owen in the dark. He dubbed these days 'the dreads'.

In frustration with his lack of sleep Owen rose to tend to the fire. The omnipresent black cat sat quietly on a windowsill scrutinizing Owen's activities. He used a pickaxe he found in a storage room to pry some planks from the pile of wooden pallets now stored inside the mill area.

Taking the cat with him, Owen worked up the courage to wander outside. Sometimes in rural areas, Abby could satisfy her cravings in quiet anonymity, but in the city he could not risk exposure. His faint dream of salvation, his low burning ember of hope, lay snug in his pants pocket – the empty vial holy water. To his dismay, this required facing another one of his dreads. Obtaining holy water meant entering a church.

The damaged entry door to the mill worried him. The door opened out, but Abby mangled the latch when she broke in. If Owen shut the door in just the right way, the latch would catch. But it was tricky. While inside, he could prop something under the push bar to keep it from opening. A sledgehammer worked great; the weight of the head anchored it in place. While wandering the streets, he needed the push bar to swing free. Otherwise, he couldn't get back inside. He was uncomfortable leaving Abby so exposed, but he couldn't identify a better solution.

The cat scampered away as soon as Owen placed him on the exit step. The weather fit Owen's mood. A dreary, overcast day intensified by a drenching rain. It was nearly enough to extinguish his flame of hope, but he endured. The clouds led Owen to wonder, _There is no sun, why can't Abby come outside on overcast days_? _How much sunlight is too much? _

Owen passed by his homeless man gatekeeper. Huddled in his plastic-wrapped cardboard he resided in the alley Owen journeyed through nearly every day. The rainy weather didn't stop him from bellowing, "Get out of my alley!" as a ward against the intrusion. The man defended his few belongings with a miserly obsession.

When Owen cleared the protective alley, the wind howled, battering him with a ferocious onslaught. His jacket and pants quickly soaked through. This irksome progression toward winter bedeviled someone with only a few apparel choices.

Having avoided any sign of a church for his first week in Pueblo, Owen was not even sure where to begin his search. He wandered the streets of Pueblo aimlessly hoping to stumble across a steeple.

Then he recalled his personal promise of hot food using his few remaining dollars – an excuse for procrastination. He purchased a wiener and hot cocoa from a portable street vendor in the park and settled on an empty bench for his dining pleasure. Compared to Halloween, the park was empty without enough people to pretend to ignore him. Owen devoured the warm meal before it became too soggy. It was delicious. But thoughts of warm macaroni and cheese meals of days past reminded him of a time when his appetite was satisfied enough to refuse food.

His money nearly gone and his hunger barely suppressed, Owen noticed his homeless acquaintances, Blaise and Greg, sitting across the street on the city hall steps. Greg held out a plastic sheet over both their heads while Blaise held a Styrofoam cup and a corrugated cardboard sign that read, "Just like Barleysmith, we're looking for a little change." They were attired in the latest designer garbage bag raincoats. Owen sat down next to the pair and asked, "How does begging fit in with the freegan lifestyle?"

Blaise answered, "It's your basic freeganomics. Some things require money."

"Like cable," Greg interjected. He took a swig from his thermos.

"Or toiletries," Blaise continued. "Begging is an accepted practice for us freegans. You should try it sometime."

"I have. It's not all it's cracked up to be. I don't think you can make a decent living by begging in Pueblo. Thanks for the comb."

Blaise glanced at Owen's saturated, matted hair. "You should consider using it sometime."

"I'm saving it for a special occasion. My hair would break the tines. Here let me help with your collection," Blaise's cup jingled as Owen added his last thirty-three cents.

A beat cop wandered over and chased them off of the steps. Blaise tucked away his sign, and motioned for Owen to follow. "C'mon, I think we can provide you with some basic fashion accessories."

They wandered a few blocks with the wind at their backs. Greg rolled up the plastic sheet as a hat while Blaise raised the hood from his blue jacket from under the trash bag. Both of their ponytails were tucked under their coats. Assuming the others would follow, Blaise set a deliberate pace. Sneakers squished with each step, making Owen jealous of their waterproof boots. Walking with the direction of the wind eased the journey, but the frigid air penetrated his thin hoodie.

The trio splashed their way through puddles to the back loading dock of a store. A couple of workers were unloading and cataloging a donation bin – a young blond haired youth on the street level handed goods to an older, balding fellow on the raised dock. The youth, no older than Owen, accosted the three, "Go away, no begging here." He placed his hand on Blaise's shoulder to turn him away.

Blaise stalled, appearing surprised at the hand, barely reacting to the insult. Greg was not so unassuming. He grabbed the youth's hand and ripped it free. In one rapid move he threw him to the ground and jumped on him. After a few blows to the face, the second worker leaped off the dock and separated the two.

Shoved onto the flooded ground, Greg sat up and laughed. He jumped up with a clap and a "that was fun" and brushed the gravel off of his pants. He picked up his thermos, which had miraculously settled upright on the ground.

The older gentlemen helped the youth off the ground by his arm. "Billy, what is wrong with you?"

Billy's jeans were soaked through from the sudden trip to the asphalt. His eyes darted back and forth searching for the meaning behind his boss' words. "What's wrong with me?" he protested shivering. "I thought I was helping. These bums have no business here."

"What is the name on the front of the store?"

"Benevolence?"

"That's right. Try to show a little bit of it. We're trying to help these people! These are the good guys." The elder gentlemen towards the group, "I'm sorry for that Blaise. What can I do for you today?"

"No harm done, Jason." Blaise looked at shivering Billy. A bruise developed around Billy's left eye. "At least not for me. I think Greg enjoyed the exercise. How much for a couple of garbage bags?"

"I think I have some leftovers here." Jason reached up on the dock and routed through the gathered clothing. He pulled out two intact, lawn size garbage bags that were used to handle donated clothes. "Here you go. Free of charge."

"Thanks. How about shears? Do you have some I could borrow?"

Up on the dock, Jason located some large, black handled scissors and passed them to Blaise. Blaise put the bags next to each other and carved a large, ragged hole in the bottoms, making them worthless to carry anything. While cutting he explained, "Aside from food, I think I could live on garbage bags. They are the single most useful items for us freegans." He proceeded to cut more holes from each side of the bags. He motioned for Owen to come closer. He forced one of the bags over Owen's head. "Now put your arms through the holes."

"This is brilliant," Owen said. The heavy rain plinked off of the plastic of the garbage bag. "Now I can stay wet long after the rain stops."

Blaise smiled at the attempted humor. "You can dry off anytime you want. Consider this a windbreaker." The second bag he folded and placed in his pocket. The bag succeeded; Owen's chill evaporated as the plastic retained his body heat.

While Blaise attended to Owen's clothing, Jason had pulled Billy aside. Billy responded angrily, "You're not allowed to force me to volunteer. I know my rights! You have to pay me for that time. I'm sure it's written on a government poster around here somewhere."

"I know my rights, too," Jason said. "I can't make you volunteer, but I can also fire you for accosting a customer. I had over twenty people apply for this job, and I expect anyone of them would volunteer if there was a paycheck in the end. Consider this sensitivity training."

"But, four hours?" Billy scowled.

"Yes, four hours. You can clock out after we've finished the inventory." Jason turned toward the trio. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"I also need four orange juices," Blaise said.

"No problem." Jason entered the store and returned with four single-serving orange juice cartons.

Greg reached for the four cartons. "Are these cold?" he asked. He handed one to Blaise and another to Owen.

Jason looked up at the sky. "Give them ten minutes. They'll be plenty cold."

"How much?" Blaise asked.

"How much do you have?"

"How about thirty-three cents?"

"Sounds great." Blaise handed over Owen's thirty-three cents. "Have a blessed day! We'll see you around."

Owen shook his carton, opened and quickly downed his orange juice. The sweetness invigorated him. "Thanks," he said to Blaise. "It's heavenly."

"Don't thank me. It's your treat."

Blaise turned and strode away and Greg followed. Caught unawares by their quick departure, Owen raced to catch up. Not sure where they were headed now, there seemed to be an expectation that he would follow. Like an aluminum can traveling down the Arkansas River, Owen was caught up in the maelstrom known as Blaise.

While walking down the sidewalk, Owen asked Greg how they knew Jason. "We were both in 'Nam," Greg answered.

Owen knew very little about the war. It was a nebulous concept in some collective national memory. He had known people affected by it, but he knew more about the Civil War than

Vietnam. "Were all of you in the same unit?"

"Nah," Greg answered. "We weren't even there at the same time. But we have to stick together. There is nobody else we can rely on." Owen thought, perhaps, he would try developing his own war buddies. His new platoon advanced to defend the battle of Pueblo. This was a novel concept for Owen: camaraderie. Blaise and Greg's candles burned bright.

**Javier Sacco**

Javier walked home from elementary school pondering his fate. The driving rainfall plastered his dark hair to his forehead. Hope had gotten him nowhere. His fire smoldered in a slow burning anger. His 'mother' had been dumb the night before! Held at the police station, he prepared for combat. Instead of anger, his stepmother arrived to pick him up in tears. Seeing her red, swollen eyes he felt awful; until he realized he hadn't caused her pain. She worried about his hospitalized stepfather. Javier in jail could not compete with Tony 'the sicko'.

They stopped by the hospital to collect his stepfather. Javier stewed in the backseat for his 'family' to return – another forced isolation. Approaching the car, his father barely looked hurt. _What was all the fuss about_? He certainly wasn't sick. Javier spent hours in a cold, stark prison cell as a 'lesson', yet his stepparents were more concerned with a few scrapes and bruises. That was the real lesson – how little they cared for their stepson. Why did they bother to adopt him? Children living in group homes received more attention.

At school it was a different story. His few hours in jail resulted in reverential honor - the temporary deity of Thatcher Elementary School. A band of children followed him around, pleading for juicy nuggets about his confinement. Speaking out of turn in class, scuffling in the lunch line and mouthing off to the hall monitors served to enhance his aura. Another lesson learned - treated with indifference at home, jail time inspired respect at school. The principal's office was warm and inviting compared to prison. He welcomed the personal attention.

Entering the front door of his house, Javier found Tony resting with his stepmother catering to his every whim. Javier felt like an intruder; an unwanted third wheel. Aileen angrily let him know about the call she received from school. The words bounced off ineffectively. _Big deal! I was in prison._ Inured to the verbal battering, Javier strove to develop his bored expression. Suffering through a few minute verbal abasement, with a final "Are you listening to me?" he left his dripping backpack on the foyer floor, and marched back outside.

Rain and wind buffeted his body, but Javier preferred the weather to the torrent at home. He wandered the streets for a spell, allowing the cold rain to extinguish his temper. _Life was so unfai_r! He found a large twig and swung at bushes along the sidewalk. Compared to the force of a driving rain, he failed at bush bashing. Then he discovered the mother lode of destructive potential – a confused, homeless man stuck in a blind alley.

With his thin, gray hair glistening in the rain, the elderly man staggered between the walls. He walked slowly into one wall, paused for a few moments, and then turned and walked into another wall. Despite his heavy coat, the vagrant shivered, almost violently. Amused, Javier studied him for a few minutes until the filthy man found his way toward the alley exit. _This is going to be fun._ Javier headed into the alley, stick in hand. Halfway into the back street, he reached the man and poked him hard with the twig. The twig bent, but held firm. The old man paused, blinked a few times, and turned back into the alley. _This is better than shooting pool_.

Javier continued poking the shell of a man, gleefully taking aim. "Retard in the corner pocket," he said for the nonexistent crowd. He raised his arms in acknowledgment of the imaginary cheers for his latest successful shot. The loser eventually huddled in a corner with muted tears of frustration. He shivered uncontrollably while ignoring Javier's jabs to start him moving again.

Three garbage bags, topped with heads, wandered into the alley_. The march of the clowns … is the circus in town? _The tallest of the three, wearing a plastic bag hairnet over his light brown ponytail hastened toward Javier yelling, "Hey, what are you doing to Paul?" Javier faced him, fencing style, with a twig that suddenly seemed very small.

The newly arrived beggar bulldozed the twig aside with a flick of his arm. He grabbed Javier by the scruff with one hand and shoved him against the neighboring brick wall. Gasping for breath, Javier groaned from the impact. "I asked you a question, you little prick! What were you doing with Paul?"

Javier coughed out a lame "nothing". He began urgently gasping for air, wheezing through his mouth. The vagrant let him fall to the ground. Javier jerked his inhaler out of his pants pocket and breathed three rapid spritzes of the life saving aerosol. He glared at the scum, jumped up, and scampered out of the alley. "Fuckin' dirtbag loser!" Javier yelled in defiance. In one day Javier descended from elementary school royalty to street vermin punching bag. He was humiliated. Scum shouldn't be allowed to treat him like that! His fire burned in a desire for revenge. Perhaps he could manipulate his stepfather into throwing them in the slammer.

On top of that abomination, Javier's stomach gnarled with hunger. He had not eaten since lunch time. Now he had to grovel to his stepmother to get a bite to eat. Discussions about responsibility and respect were sure to accompany any meal. These would be followed by more dim-witted restrictions on the TV. Powerlessness and self-loathing did not begin capture his hostility. _The world is so unfair!_

**Owen**

Owen studied the Hispanic youth daring from the alleyway. He wanted to shake the boy out of his self-absorbed, destructive behavior. Owen concentrated on the homeless man being helped by Blaise and Greg.

Blaise crouched next to Paul and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. "Paul? … Paul? Are you okay?" With his eyes cloudy eyes dancing from side to side, Paul stared into space, bewildered. Blaise looked concerned.

"He seems pretty out of it," Owen said. "Is he senile? He looks older than my grandfather."

"Paul's just a few years older than I am," Blaise answered, "less than fifty." Blaise pulled out the spare garbage bag and covered Paul, gently positioning his head and arms through the holes. Greg found the spare orange juice carton, opened it, and handed it to Blaise. He gently tipped the elixir into Paul's mouth. He took a few sips. Blaise gripped his shoulder tight, but the shivers continued causing much of the juice to spill.

Paul's eyes slowly gained awareness of those around him. His shivering slowed and his panicked expression vanished. "Paul's blood is rebelling against him," Blaise added as a way of explanation. "I worried he might have problems with the change in weather." Blaise examined Paul for scrapes and bruises. Owen marveled at the practiced care.

"I guess he was a Vietnam vet, too. Huh?" Owen wondered aloud.

"No, we just found him wandering the city, and he needed help," Greg answered. "Just like a few others."

It took some time, but the fog from Paul's eyes lifted. His awareness returned slowly until he chugged the last bit of the juice. "I think we need to try to get you some shelter for the night. All right, Paul?"

Paul nodded with a "thanks."

"Thank Owen. He bought the juice," Blaise said with a wink toward Owen.

Paul became aware of the others in the alley. His eyes lit up with joy. Uncomfortably, he reached out to grasp Owen's hand, "Thank you." Paul shook his hand forcefully. Owen's cheeks flushed from the unexpected attention. Blaise added, "It's getting late. Let's get you to the shelter." The group started off expecting Owen to follow once again.

With a V-8 slap to the forehead, Owen realized how little daylight remained. "I need to find a church. Could you point me in the right direction?" Owen asked to the group.

"Right down the street is the Church of Salvation," Greg answered.

"No, it needs to be a Catholic Church."

"I get it," Blaise said. "All Saints Day - a holy day, if you're Catholic. That's mighty good of you. I had forgotten."

"No, that's not it," Owen protested weakly.

"Across the river on Jefferson Street you'll find St. Simeon's. I don't know the mass schedule, but I'm sure there are many tonight." He gave him general directions. "Once you get close, you'll notice the cross on top of the steeple."

Forty-five minutes later, chilled and dripping, Owen stood in front of St. Simeon's Catholic Church. The outside siding was a beige adobe style, with an enormous cross above the off-center bell tower. Unlike the neighboring buildings, the church had a tiny lawn decorated with a large elder tree in the front. The parking lot was half full with few shiny Lincolns and Mercedes-Benz cars scattered throughout.

With a loud creek, Owen entered the narthex through the heavy, intricately carved doors. An usher hushed him to silence with the early afternoon mass already in session. Owen smiled at a mother comforting a fussy infant. She returned his greeting with a haughty frown, scanning him up and down before returning her attention to the speaker.

Owen had not stepped into a church in years. This visit brought back harsh memories of his mother beating her breasts in shame. Fur coats, glittering from raindrops, occupied the forward pews with sweatshirts and jeans in the back. The reader's voice was seductive. The words were as confusing as he remembered, but he was transfixed. "Beloved, we are God's children now; it does not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that when He appears we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is. And every one who thus hopes in Him purifies Himself as He is pure."

_What the hell does that gibberish mean?_

The lector ended with "This is the Word of the Lord" and sat down. Owen unconsciously responded with the "Thanks be to God" that he remembered from his childhood. The priest stood. Holding the book of the gospels high and flanked by the altar candlelight, he bowed toward the tabernacle.

Movement of the flowing golden robes broke the spell. Recollections of fierce parental fights about nosy, intrusive priests forced him to turn away. He dipped his vial into the holy water font by the back door. With his prize in hand, he bolted. Owen winced at the loud crashing sound of the door slamming shut. His mother would have disapproved. Fortunately for Owen, the wind and rain were tapering off.

Owen raced all the way to the steel mill where he found the door hanging open again; the latch was not strong enough to keep it shut. Once inside, he wedged the sledgehammer under the push bar to keep the latch engaged. Owen walked over to their sleeping areas and added a few more planks to the dwindling barrel fire. Removing the protective garbage bag, the chill soaked through his damp clothes. _The blessed warmth of the fire! _But still he was chilled to the bone.

Owen decided the chill came from thinking too much about it. It was time to consider Abby. Peeling back her blankets, he gazed sadly at her pallor. Her face displayed a pale bluish-green hue with too many weeping ulcers to count. Her gray-tinted brown hair fell listlessly over her face. Each shallow breath released a deep, guttural rumble – a purr from deep in her throat.

Owen worried about her worsening pain. Just a few years before, her corruption was not so apparent while she slept. He stroked her cheeks and then, for the first time, her lips. With his declaration the night before, his desire to become just like her, this fear no longer held him captive. Her cracked, swollen lips trembled in agony and her jagged teeth poked out from under them. They were sharp enough. One hard push would slice his thumb. Her saliva could change him without her knowledge. _One cut and I could be with her forever_.

Such temptations must wait for Owen to first try the suggestions from the Blazing Crescent.

He held his vial of holy water tightly in his hand. The precious fluid splashed against the green rose petals inside. He paced around Abby's makeshift bed. The holy water could release her, or it could injure her. He knew the stories; he expected the latter. She was in enough pain, and he did not want to cause more. He had dithered enough – dusk was coming.

Determined not to waver, he lifted the other side of the blanket to expose her tightly curled feet. Her thick, pointy toenails looked like grandfather's yellowed nails. He removed the stopper from the vial, and poured a drop of holy water on his forefinger. Cautiously, he rubbed the fluid on her ankle and waited.

Nothing happened; nothing at all. Abby's shallow breathing did not change and she showed no change in her expression of pain. She did not even wake up. Owen poured more of the water directly on her ankle. Nothing. _What a waste of money!_

Owen closed the vial and shoved it in his pocket. He still had the bell, though he did not hold out much hope for success. The stories he knew discussed holy water and silver crosses. He worried that the water would burn her. He could not imagine what to expect from a bell.

He rooted through his belongings next to his mattress and found his prize. No more than three inches tall, it was a tiny thing. Over more than half its height ran a stained, wooden handle. Taped to the side of the bell, the clapper was silent. Owen removed the tape and gave it a rapid shake. The ding echoed throughout the mill floor.

Unlike the holy water, the ringing bell had an immediate effect. Abby woke with a loud growl. She leaped from the bin onto Owen's torso, knocking him to the floor. Dagger-like talons dug through his shirt and into his skin. She paused on top of him for a moment. Worry and fear radiated from her smoldering misty blue eyes. Her confusion hurt more than the sharp pain in Owen's side.

Abby howled when the black cat jumped out of nowhere and dug its claws into her back. _Not now! How does it get back inside?_ She threw the cat aside and bounded on all fours into a dark corner. Bats scattered; their wings beating through the cavernous mill.

He tested the injury in his chest. This time, a rib was certainly broken. Pain cascaded through is body. He could hardly breathe. Owen writhed on the floor for what seemed like hours, but was probably no more than a few minutes. He could not find a comfortable position. He rolled to the side and pushed himself to a seated position, gasping sharply in pain. "I'm sorry Abby," he said to the dark corner, "I was trying to help." He could hear her rapid, throaty pant, but she couldn't or wouldn't answer.

Hope was a tentative thing. He wasted all of his limited money. He stepped inside a church, awakening all sorts of shameful memories. Those labors did not change this one inevitable, reprehensible fact. Owen had to face 'the dreads'; tonight he was going hunting.

**Gabriella Agosto**

Gabriella Agosto returned to the cafeteria after settling Paul into the men's dormitories. The frequent visitor was bestowed upon the shelter by the persistent city's guardian watchdogs, Blaise and Greg. Even as the temperature dropped, the two of them rarely stayed. Despite his thanks for the accommodations, Paul will remain one night – insisting on his limited independence tomorrow.

Back to the homework, she attacked her freshman Chemistry studies. Stoichiometry – esoteric alchemy she could barely pronounce, let alone understand. These hours spent volunteering were normally a welcome distraction, but not with a Chemistry midterm approaching. _Why do you even need Chemistry for a nursing degree?_

The only remaining diners were the Clark family holding their lonely vigil. The other shelter residents finished eating and departed for their rooms or the street. The Clarks were outcasts, even among this population. Weaving back and forth to the tune on the radio Isabel rocked her infant. A wasted shell of a Farrah Fawcett look alike, her grayish blond hair curled in tight ringlets. A purple, festering sore peeked above her red, faded turtleneck. She earned her money and afflictions during a more innocent time on the streets of Pueblo. With the baby finally asleep, the mother left to place the child in the shelter's rickety crib.

Gabriella's attention wandered to two of her favorite young residents. Lazarus and Caleb Clark waited at their table for their mother's return. Parked quietly on one of the chairs, Lazarus sometimes acted like a normal, industrious ten-year-old. Other times he was lost in a near catatonic stupor. The aggressive virus incapacitated him. He wore a vacant, feverish expression with lazy, droopy eyes. His crossed legs dangled slowly beneath the chair. He could not even bother wiping his persistent, dripping nasal slime. With painful white boils inside his mouth and on his tongue, Lazarus left his small dinner untouched.

Caleb, his six-year-old brother, was just the opposite. In constant motion he showed no symptoms of the illness that will one-day kill him. His moppy blond hair flying around the cafeteria was one of the few signs of joy Gabriella relied on within the shelter. She had brought in a few of her own childhood toys to keep Caleb occupied. Her stuffed animals reenacted a range of dramas, sometimes for hours. Tonight Caleb knelt in front of his chair with a doll and stuffed rabbit reenacting a Punch and Judy style puppet show complete with imaginary stick.

Their isolation from the other itinerants was as powerful as their illness. Even among the homeless there was a pecking order and the Clarks were at the bottom. Residents declared their condemnation with avoidance and awkward glances. The two young boys were ignorant of their outcast status, but Isabel was all too aware.

Gabriella returned to her Chemistry textbook, momentarily, until she heard a timid knock at the front door. Thankful for the excuse to defer studying, she cracked the door open. Behind it stood a bruised young man wearing dirty jeans and a black, lined windbreaker. "Hi," she said. "Welcome to paradise. Are you looking for a place to stay? We have a few beds if you need one for the evening."

"No, I'm not a pathetic loser." He answered. "I'm here to volunteer for a few hours. My name Billy, Billy Scott." He held out his hand for her to shake.

Gabriella frowned, studying him uncertainly. "Come on in. You don't have to knock. What made you decide to help these _pathetic losers_?" She introduced herself while ignoring his outstretched hand. "Are you working on a merit badge or something?"

Billy had the grace to look embarrassed. "I'm no Boy Scout_.__"__ That's a shock. _"My boss wants me to volunteer for four hours." When she opened the door wide to let him in, he got a full look at Gabriella and his embarrassment deepened. If only Gabriella had brought her camera with her for this great photographic opportunity. Color film would capture his bright red shading perfectly.

"Do you mind if I call you Gabby?"

"Yes," Gabriella said. "I'll only be here for a couple more hours, but you can get started. Who's your boss?"

"Jason Mitchell, down at Benevolence."

"Ah. Uncle Jason. He's a good guy."

"Uncle? He doesn't look … umm …" Billy searched for an appropriate description, "Mexican."

Gabriella chuckled, "He's not really my uncle; just a family friend. Let me show you around. I have to remain here until the boys' mother returns. The Kitchen first." She led Billy to the table where the children were playing. Closer to the kids, Billy took note of Lazarus's illness. His disgust was unmistakable. Gabriella looked forward to showing him how to clean bedpans. She addressed the boys, "would either of you like some hot chocolate?" She pronounced it "choe coe law tay" like it was something exotic.

Caleb leaped up with an excited, "Yes!" Lazarus nodded in agreement.

"I like the way you say that," Billy said.

Gabriella smiled, "How about 'chocolate caliente?'"

"Wow, that's hot," Billy said.

Gabriella chuckled, "Yes, it is."

Gabriella showed Billy how to use their new, used, donated microwave. The shelter was becoming high tech. The controls were fairly basic – set the time to four minutes for two mugs of milk and push start. Gabriella learned the correct time through trial and error. When finished, she added some Hershey's syrup to the warm milk and stirred for the perfect consistency.

Isabel returned to the cafeteria just as Gabriella delivered the hot beverages to the table. She then took Billy on the practical grand tour. Changing the adult diapers of a senile 80-year-old man highlighted the experience. Your hands never really feel clean after that. Gabriella had to hand it to Billy; he braved his disgust to complete the chores.

Aside from instructions on shelter responsibilities, their conversation was limited. The brash youth at the front door had become quiet and timid. "Do you know anything about chemistry?" Gabriella asked hoping for some help. He was less familiar with stoichiometry than she was. Grateful for someone to share a few laughs with while braving the filth, he was a pleasant distraction.

After cleaning the restrooms, emptying the trash, and looking to the needs of the men and women's dormitories, the fun ended and they returned to the cafeteria. The lone remaining resident of the cafeteria, a man wearing a black clerical shirt, sat at one of the tables. He frowned while studying a letter and spit brown juice into a Styrofoam cup. "Padre!" Gabriella said. "You gave a beautiful sermon today. Let me introduce our new volunteer."

Gabriella introduced Billy. Father Erasmus was polite, but unusually somber. "What's that you are reading?" Gabriella asked him.

Father Erasmus answered, "We had a safety inspection from the city last weekend. Substandard wiring, insufficient sprinklers, not enough smoke detectors … twenty-three violations in all. Some are going to require some extensive work. I can appeal, but I expect we will be closed for awhile until we can afford the repairs." Father Erasmus looked through the wall in the direction of the sleeping quarters. "I guess the city believes they'll be safer on the street. That's a depressing thought."

Billy chimed in, "That can't be fair. Are you sure you there isn't someone in the city government who attends your church? Maybe they can help." Gabriella wondered about Billy's sudden interest in the _pathetic losers_.

"Nobody comes to mind. I'll ask the Bishop to intercede. Maybe he can make some progress where I would fail. I'll put a request in the bulletin for volunteer help and donations. The shelter should reopen; with luck by Christmas."

"I'll keep them in my prayers," Gabriella said. She held the priest's hand in support, but she was heartbroken. All of those people desperate for food and shelter just as the cold weather stormed in. Many of them may die on the street. The Clarks were going to struggle. Gabriella hoped the Bishop would be successful. "I'm about ready to close up, Padre. Let me get you some coffee before I go."

Gabriella returned with a steaming hot cup. Padre took a sip and frowned, "Decaf? What's the point?"

"It's late, Padre. You need to get your sleep."

"Thanks, I guess. It is an evil night out there tonight. The rain stopped, but there is a wicked fog. Perhaps Billy would be kind enough to escort you back to the university. Do you think that would be too much to ask, Billy?"

Billy looked down at the ground and stammered, "I … I ... could do that, if you want." His cheeks returned to a brilliant rosy red coloring.

"That would be great! Thanks, Billy. Vamanos." Gabriella jammed her books into her backpack and slung it over her shoulder.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Padre." She gave him a kiss in the cheek.

"Are you coming back tomorrow too, Billy?"

"Maybe … If it's all right." Billy blushed.

"It's more than all right." Gabriella said. "I can use all of the help I can get. Let's go." She grabbed him by the arm and tugged him out the door.

Down Jefferson Street, Billy was nervously quiet. Gabriella tried to draw him out with simple questions about work. He warmed when discussing high school. Billy attended her rival; he was a bulldog while she was a wildcat. They shared a laugh about the unimportance of the rivalry just a few months after graduation. His best friend from school enlisted in the Navy. Billy drifted aimlessly since he left. The military loomed as a better option each day. Billy wondered how she became involved in the shelter.

"I attend church at St. Simeon's and walked past the shelter every week. When I was ten, I saw the need, so I kept returning. Once I brought my high school class on a field trip. That was a disaster! I was accustomed to the poverty, but my classmates were disgusted by it."

Through the fog, they could barely make out the correct signs. The streets were deserted. Gabriella continued her story as they crossed over the Main Street Bridge.

Billy chuckled, "I think my school would have the same reaction. It's easier to ignore, than it is to stomach. Why do you still volunteer? You're going to college - you should be enjoying the good life."

"The other kids at college are fun. The shelter is as much my home as anywhere. And Father Erasmus has been very good to my family and I. He lobbied the parish to provide a full scholarship for my studies. I can't allow myself to disappoint him."

The pair ambled down Hudson now. "This is a really long walk back to your school. I didn't think Pueblo was this huge. How much farther is it?"

"Not much. We're over half way."

"Why don't you ever just take the bus?"

"And miss this wonderful stroll?" Gabriella shrugged. "The bus never seems to fit my schedule. So I usually walk."

From the direction of the river, they were startled to a man's scream rise above the city clamor,

"Get out of my alley! Leave me alone! Get out of my fuckin' alley!" The words repeated again and again.

"What do you think that is?" Gabriella asked.

"I don't know," Billy answered. "I think we should get out of here." But they were frozen to the pavement.

A second, younger man's voice called out, "If you try anything, I'm gonna to hit you with it."

A third man's voice yelled, "Quiet down out there!" After a few more unintelligible shouts, they heard only murmurs of random city noises. A few dogs barked in the distance. Water dripped from downspouts.

Gabriella held onto Billy's arm, "This fog must be getting to me, but I'm glad you're here. For the first time in years, I'm frightened on the walk back. Maybe we should call the police," Gabriella said.

"Let's just get you back to your dorm room. What would we tell the police? It just sounds like some crazy man." Gabriella and Billy continued on to the university. Billy held onto her tightly. His concern outweighed his shyness. Anxious now, they had little more discussion.

Gabriella thanked Billy when they arrived. "I think Padre was right," she added. "This is an evil night. Be careful on your way back." She kissed him on his cheek and went up to her room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Scent of Hope

**Owen**

Owen spent several hours drying off his clothes by the fire, occasionally trying to coax Abby away from her perch. He called to her, but she stayed silently tucked away in the shadowy soffit.

Only trying to help her, Owen was more tormented by her hostility than he was by the pain knifing through his ribs. The emotions raging through her were terrifying. He didn't understand if she were scared or angry by the ringing bell. He left the mill for his hunt saturated with near paralyzing uncertainty. But he had a task – he needed to satisfy those cravings. The rain died down to a steady drizzle. He passed by the alley's ancient street urchin. "Get out of my alley!" the old man cried. He fiercely guarded his bottles and other possessions.

"I'm just passing through," Owen said. "Catch you on the flip side."

Early evening and many people wandered the streets, despite the rain. Cars splashed through puddles. Owen's garbage bag raincoat protected him from the spattering water. _Where to find a promising victim in the city without drawing unwanted attention?_ Perhaps he could persuade someone he needed help - _at the abandoned mill?_

It wasn't always this way. For many of their years, Abby was self-sufficient. Owen satisfied himself with guarding and protecting her. Their basic M.O. was to find a house on the outskirts of a small town and make quick work of the few occupants, preferably a lonely older couple. Owen covered the windows and found Abby a quiet bathroom for her daytime sleep. The house usually contained the little money they needed to survive. In rural areas neighbors minded their own business.

When somebody knocked on the door, the pair remained quiet. Once in awhile, a persistent friend or relative might show up to check on the owners. With a little luck the nosy neighbor provided another opportunity for a meal. For the most part, they were left alone.

After a few weeks or so, it always varied depending on factors Owen failed to understand, Abby sought someone walking alone at night. Owen preferred not to know the details, but he knew what happened when she returned covered in blood.

Before long, the quiet house attracted bill collectors. Other times, a trail of blood or eyewitnesses directed police to their refuge. This was their signal to move on. They might be able to hold out for as long as a few months, but when deaths started to mount, the police became curious. Sometimes Owen and Abby could plan their exit strategy. Other times they had to make a hasty retreat. He knew that Abby expected more help. The old man she lived with before Owen, her "father", killed for her. Stalking potential victims improved their chances, but he was not practiced at gathering blood.

Getting caught was the worst way to fail Abby, and tonight was another such opportunity. There were still too many people around. He considered the old man in the alley as prey, and rejected him. Too many people knew his routine, and he was loud. When he asked the old man if he wanted to come in the mill, he only became louder and more agitated.

Despite the rain, D Street bustled with activity. The pretty ladies hawked their bodies to passersby while cars honked in appreciation. The street preacher did not enjoy the spectacle. He called out his epithets to everyone whether they were listening or not. "Turn away from fornication! It is the path to death and eternal damnation! I have seen and bear witness to the face of evil."

As charismatic as the street preacher was, Owen, like most people, was more interested in the women. Some drivers responded to the preacher with constructive comments like, "Bite me, you fuckin' douchebag." Owen wouldn't find a promising victim among this crowd. But it was still early, and the confrontation fascinated him.

The street preacher turned and directed his venomous rhetoric in Owen's direction. Anxious from this sudden attention, Owen bolted.

Before long, he discovered a 1930's vintage movie theater where the evening show of _Halloween 4_ was just letting out. By now, the rain had stopped, and a thick fog rose from the wet pavement.

The small crowd, laughing and joking, considered everything but the movie. Where they were going next and who was dating who were the consequential topics. "How could Debbie possibly be interested in Fred? Not with his run down car and his mullet." "But he's so sweet."

Most of the audience drove away in their cars. He chose one quiet guy who left the theater alone. A great candidate - Owen's age or a few years older and weighing quite a bit more. His retractable blue umbrella, swaying haplessly from his wrist, matched the color of his Members Only jacket.

Owen followed him for a few blocks waiting for the crowd to thin out. In the past, whenever he tried stalking prey, he could never relax. Abby insisted that he should find people from far away. That made no sense. She was a lot stronger than he was. _How am I supposed to cart an unconscious body over several miles?_

The simplest way was the best way. In towns, he tried to convince people to approach their lodging for economic or altruistic reasons. It was simple to call a plumber, hire someone to help clean the attic, or take a cab to their house. The excuse didn't matter. He just needed to get somebody within Abby's reach. This might explain why they had to run so often. A plumber left notes detailing his jobs.

In the heavy fog, Owen lost sight of his prey several times. No problem, he followed the sound. His potential victim's rubber overshoes smacked the sidewalk with each step. A ghostly shadow unexpectedly danced beneath the streetlight, startling Owen. He dashed to cover; his heart racing. A cat jumped from one branch to another creating the spectral image in the mist.

Owen recovered his wits and relocated the lone pedestrian. Gathering his courage, Owen licked his clammy, dry lips. He gave a weak plea, "Hey, can you help me out? I'm lost." Owen's thundering heart pressed against his rib cage.

Startled by his cry, the other young man flinched and glanced at Owen. Surprisingly, he turned and scampered away. He was fast! _That's never happened before. Most people are usually helpful. _Approaching a target after viewing a horror movie may not have been the wisest choice. _It's getting late - __I guess that leaves the old man in the alley._

After helping Blaise and Greg with Paul, causing someone's death seemed more wrong than ever. Each death extinguished a little bit of his ember of hope. Paul showed that sparks remained, even among the destitute. Yet, there Owen stood at the entrance to the alley behind the mill. Shrouded in fog, the alley echoed with dripping water and the quiet breathing of the old man.

Owen looked inside the cardboard box, "Hey old man, what's your name?"

"Get out of my alley," the old man cried from the damp confines of his cardboard box. He slept very lightly, protecting his belongings.

"Mr. 'Get out of my alley' would you like to come in someplace warm? I have a nice fire."

"Get out of my alley," the old man yelled even louder this time. Prey weren't at all cooperative tonight.

He grabbed the old man by his arm. "Let's go Mr. 'Get out of my alley'. It's time to get warm."

Stronger than he looked, the old man shook his arm away. "Let go. Leave me alone! Get out of my fuckin' alley!" He was very consistent. He yelled it over and over.

"Shhh, please be quiet," Owen pleaded. "Please just come along."

The old man continued to scream, even louder if that was possible. Owen worried if someone would investigate in the fog. Backing away diminished the complaints to a quiet whimper. Owen accidentally kicked a metal object that clanked along the paved surface … some sort of metal rod or old tire iron.

"Please … please … quiet down," Owen pleaded in a whisper. He picked up the tire iron and held it menacingly.

"What do you think you are going to do with that?" his father asked standing there in the alley, shrouded in mist.

_How did he get here?_ "I'm going to hit you with it. If you try anything."

"Really? Wow," Kenny answered. The boy who tormented Owen in school; the one who Owen last saw in bloody pieces, scattered around the pool. His mother sobbed in the background. Glass shattered. Dark wine drizzled out of the broken carafe, staining the tile floor.

"Are you scared? Are you scared, little girl?" The old man screamed once again.

Someone from a block away called from a window. "Quiet down out there!"

"See, I'm not the only one who wants you to quiet down," Owen said. "Now just calm down."

The ice was covered with fog and Owen slipped, but he kept his balance. The metal rod felt awkward in his grip. _Cedar_? He smelled pine scent mixed with the alcohol and urine smells. He was in his neighborhood – at the frigid pond. Kenny, cocky and confidant, said, "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to take that stick and ram it up your ass." Misty breath punctuated each word.

Intense with anticipation, Owen heard his mother screaming, "Please, David! Don't hurt him." _Don't cry, mom_.

Owen shook with vengeance. He held the upper hand and he was not going to back down. He lifted up the tire iron over his head with both hands and swung downward with a 'thunk'. With the contact, pain shot down Owen's arm to his aching rib.

The old man fell silently to the ground with one blow. His father's yelp of pain drifted across the mist. Owen fell next to him on all fours with the tire iron clanging off the ground. He wore a smile from a faded memory while tears dripped from his eyes. "Abby, I did it. I hit Kenny … really hard."

He stayed in that position while his sobs quieted down. The ice felt wet. No, the road felt wet. Owen glanced around. Nobody was in sight. He waited for someone to come. A window shut and some dogs barked in the distance. A steady drip; water striking a puddle.

The old man lay in front of Owen with blood dripping down his forehead. A bottle of malt liquor emptied onto the street tipped over by the old man when he collapsed. That's what he heard. Owen touched the old man's neck. Relieved, he felt a shallow pulse.

Manipulating people to come to Abby, somehow felt less complicit, as though the victim had a choice. In the case of Mr. 'Get out of my alley', Owen needed to carry him or abandon him. For Abby's sake Owen, wouldn't consider the latter. At least he didn't know the man's name. The anonymity made it feel less criminal. He grabbed the old man under both underarms and heaved him off the ground.

After a few inches, Owen dropped him back on the ground. _Holy shit!_ Pain ripped through his torso. _This old man was heavy._ He looked rail thin. _Where is he packing it?_ Owen searched his coat pocket nothing.

Owen threw the tattered old blanket over the prey, grasped one of his ankles and the blanket. With a loud groan, he tugged— a few inches more. Owen repositioned himself for better leverage and jerked on him again – more than six inches this time. Owen began to develop a rhythm. He gained confidence. The burn in his rib leveled off to a dull ache.

From the street outside the alley Owen heard the quiet rumble of a car engine. He was not even sure how far he had moved the old man, but it couldn't have been more than twenty feet. The headlights brightened a thousand water droplets; the fog began to glow. Captivated by the celestial splendor, Owen nearly forgot his task at hand. Grinding gravel noises intensified as the car drew closer. It might even be in the alley. Owen needed to conceal the body – now.

With one huge lunge, Owen pulled the old man to the side of the backstreet. He lay down next to him, and pulled the blanket over both their heads. Sharp rocks pierced his side. A stink of alcohol and decaying teeth filled the small bubble of stale air under the covering. Abby smelled better on her worst days. _How had I gotten myself into this situation_?

More than a year earlier, Owen and Abby escaped into an isolated forest becoming hopelessly lost. Abby spent the days whimpering inside her massive cedar-lined trunk. Owen was hoping she would scout above the treetops when darkness came, but the nights were far worse. Not once fearing she would attack him, he grew alarmed at how far the disease advanced. He was not worried for her mortality, but for her humanity. She was trapped in a feral, instinctive state. Unable to move her more than a few feet each day, several times he made plans to abandon her. A wandering hiker averted his need.

The hiker found them during the day. By then, Owen huddled, thirsty and starving, near his own ineffectual fire. Jim Sandiford, shared his food and water. Better yet, he shared his map. In thanks, Owen enticed him with a short-lived mystery. Jim openly wondered why Owen clung with desperation to this huge chest like a drowning man to a log. "I can't explain it, but wait," Owen said, "and you'll understand." It was just enough of a riddle for the curious hiker to remain.

At dusk, for a brief moment, the hiker understood. For the first time Owen had attracted and kept a victim until Abby could satisfy her cravings. From then on, they had an unspoken arrangement. Prey was Owen's responsibility. It was a choice he would make again. He would hunt for Abby. He did love her. Despite her physical strength, in her own way, she was fragile and frail. Tonight's target became the old man from the alley.

Owen held his breath against the stale air while he studied the man. Blood trickled down this cheek. Unconscious, the old man was strangely at peace. His gray stubble and knobby skin concealed his pale complexion. The area under the blanket grew warm; the old man was feverish. Owen decided this man might not be any older than his own father._ What evil has he seen that caused him to find his home in this alley?_

The blanket glowed with the flood of the automobile's headlights. Then they faded off to the side along with the diminishing crunch of gravel. The car must have turned before reaching the alley. _Incredible__ how much the fog magnified the headlights_. The driver probably could not see two feet in front of his car.

Owen crawled out from under the blanket and continued dragging the old man toward the mill. With an obstacle in the way – he grabbed opposite shoe and yanked. A different shape and size than the one on the original foot; the shoe fit very loose. Owen stumbled as one strong tug on the shoe tore it off his foot. "Dumbass!" Owen mumbled as much to himself as the old man. He angrily tossed the shoe into the murky alley.

He picked up the leg by the heel. He regretted throwing the shoe away immediately – riddled with infected sores, the man's foot reeked worse than his breath. Puss oozed through his sock, and skin flaked away. Stench of gangrene had set in. _Gross!_ This old man would be dead within a few weeks anyway. No wonder he refused to move from his cardboard box. He couldn't walk. This awareness inflamed Owen's guilt. The old man needed help … but so did Abby.

Owen grabbed the first ankle and returned to his arduous task. He reestablished the rhythm needed to move the body. Lift, tug ... lift, tug … lift, tug. The fog kept him hidden from any wandering eyes, but it exaggerated sounds. Animals braying, something banging, car tires squealing, and voices … always voices. Sometimes yelling and sometimes laughing. _What was so funny? _Owen stopped to listen, but he couldn't make it out..

The back area of the mill intertwined with a maze of railroad tracks once used to deliver raw materials to the mill. Owen had to maneuver the man over the tracks. Even unconscious, his clothes fought Owen all the way. The man's coat and blanket snagged on a bolt or railroad tie after almost each rail. Owen stopped to dislodge the clothing, wasting more time.

Hot, in pain, and nearly exhausted by the time he reached_. I'm glad he was only a few blocks away._ Despite the cold, Owen dripped with perspiration. The fog continued to blanket the ground, even thicker than before. For once the latch held; the door was shut tight. Owen pounded on the latch several times. _For crying out loud! Why is the latch holding now?_ With one final pounding, the door swung free. _Whew!_

"Abby?" Owen called up the stair well. "Abby, I could use some help."

There was no answer. After all this work, Owen was worried that Abby might have left to hunt for her own meal. In a city this size, that could be disastrous. He closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to wander, to test the air and blend with hers. Anger and hunger rustled through him. She was still there … in the shadows.

Owen examined the body considering the best way get him up the stairs. He draped the man's arms around his neck. With one arm around the old man's waist Owen heaved, lifting the man off the ground. He stumbled falling against the mill wall. Massive spasms of pain shot through his side. In tears, Owen paused to regain his strength. The wall helped hold the man on Owen's shoulder. _Damn he was heavy_. Owen hauled the body through the door, then up the stairs. A low groans escaped his cargo as Owen schlepped him higher. He was regaining consciousness. A few steps at a time. In between each step he rested him against the hand rail. Rest … a few more steps … almost there. A few more steps … rest…

Weight abruptly lifted from Owen's shoulder. The man's eyes cracked open, crying with distress. He reached his arms out to Owen, as a plea for help. The most lucid moment Owen witnessed in the week he had known him – a look of raw terror. He faded into the darkness of the ceiling clinging to his last vestige of life. Despite the impoverished life, the old man just wanted more time. _Each desperate breath was vital_. Diabetic Paul all over again.

Growling and slurping sounds echoed from the darkness. Owen flew down the stairs and out of the open door. Breathing heavily, he dropped to the ground, leaned against the mill wall and stared across the abyss.

Owen witnessed the face of God in the spectral mists above the Arkansas River. Not the joyful baby Jesus, Easter Bunny God, but the vengeful, terrifying presence of the Old Testament. Odd shapes shimmered in wonderment, caused by the bright, flickering lights of the railway bridge reflecting against the fog. The terrifying astral intensity burned his tearful eyes with its unearthly splendor. When Owen gazed at the swirling vapor in just the right way, the Almighty stared back ready to pronounce judgment – fire and brimstone or pillar of salt, neither would surprise him. Unfamiliar with the face of evil, Owen feared this vision of God.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Hundreds of accusatory faces replaced the apparition. Victims. The hiker in the woods who offered to help him find his way; a cabby taking his last fare to meet Abby; a handyman on an emergency late night call; the nameless, homeless man who lived in the alley; and Kenny, always Kenny. The boy who mercilessly terrorized him in school, lying in a puddle of blood. His bandaged ear barely recognizable in the carnage at the swimming pool. These visions demanded vengeance. Owen opened his stinging eyes. He needed to find strength to face the retribution from God in the mists above the raging river. This was his penance.

Sisyphus carried the massive boulder to the mountain top only to have it repeatedly roll back to the bottom just as he attained his goal. The exhausting, eternal task left him with a cursed struggle. Owen understood the frustration of Sisyphus. In a few short weeks, Owen will need to roll the boulder up his mountain of judgment once again. He will look into the eyes of another unsuspecting victim and, with the power reserved by God, choose life or death.

_I never thought it would be this hard. I never dreamed that someone who had so little to live for wouldn't let go._

The Arkansas River roared over the spillways. A locomotive clacked its way across the bridge whistling its warning. Mist danced and twisted as it rose from the water. Even as the ethereal face of God drifted away, His awesome power was laid bare. The artistry of the mist held its own sort of terror. He deserved judgment from this force of nature, trapped as he was on the hellish side of the river between good and evil.

A whiff of cedar pine washed over him. _A pine tree in the city?_ This night was not yet over. He needed to destroy any evidence. He ripped himself out of the bane of self-loathing and set to work. _One step at a time … first the alley._ He wiped away his tears and forced himself to get busy.

Back in the alley Owen stood over the plastic-covered cardboard home of tonight's sacrifice. Lacking the angry cry of the nameless old man, the quiet alley reeked of the isolating pressure of abandonment. Inside the box Owen found a few discarded newspapers used as a mattress, a seat cushion used as a pillow, and nearly a dozen malt liquor bottles in various states of emptiness. _Painkillers_, thought Owen. _He must have needed them._ There were a few empty soup cans. _I can use those_.

Tucked in the rear of the box Owen discovered a paper grocery bag. Inside, he found an American flag, a military-style medal, a flashlight with dead batteries, a dull pocketknife, spare socks, a ring of keys, and an old, faded photograph of a young woman. The man left no wallet, and of course, he left no money. That was all Owen found; the inventory of a man's existence.

Owen studied the photograph, wondering who she was. _Pretty with full mane of blonde wavy hair and dimples_. She was older than Abby, _perhaps a daughter or a lost girlfriend. _Nothing was inscribed on the back. She was as nameless as the old man.

Owen discarded the newspapers, cardboard box, and liquor bottles in a Dumpster. The rest of the things he collected in the grocery bag. On his way out of the alley, he located the tire iron and grabbed that. It was time to return to Abby.

**xXx**

Owen discovered Abby kneeling quietly in the center of the mill. Her head curled between her knees with her arms tucked inside. The old man's carcass was discarded to the side with his neck twisted. Abby ignored the black cat prowling along the opposite wall hissing in her direction. Owen knelt next to Abby and put his arms around her. She leaned in and Owen pulled her close. "Are you okay, Abby?"

She nodded. Her stiff hair ended in a matted, bloody tangle. Her face masked with congealed blood.

"Then let's clean up."

"Expurgate the chaos," Abby mumbled. Lethargic after the meal, Abby remained seated while Owen completed the preparations. He searched through their supplies for some spare clothes. He found an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt with "When the Levee Breaks" portrayed on the front and a pair of blue jeans. Their supply was running low. Owen needed to replace Abby's spare clothing soon.

After stationing the clothing next to Abby, along with other cleaning supplies, Owen grabbed the pail and two of the soup cans from the old man's home. He rinsed the cans with water from the bathroom faucet and filled them. He positioned them in the remaining, low burning coals for the fire. He returned to the bathroom and filled the pail.

With the pail in hand, he found the water boiling in the soup cans. Using the towel as a potholder, Owen grasped the hot cans by the lip and dumped them in the pail. Testing the water he found it to be warm, but he wanted it steaming. He repeated the exercise a couple more times with the soup cans until the water temperature was stinging hot. He left a few more cans heating in the embers.

Owen removed Abby's bloody shirt, then the pants, discarding them to the side. Almost asleep, Abby was even more distant and quiet than normal. He dipped a sponge with a little soap into the hot water and scrubbed her face. The cracked skin sloughed away, along with the blood, leaving Abby with a fresh, youthful pallor. After several rinses the water in the bucket turned red with flakes of dead skin floating on the surface. Then, Owen scrubbed her chest and back in a workmanlike fashion – concentrating on the task at hand. Abby remained quiet until Owen maneuvered her body to clean her legs. She giggled, very un-Abby like.

Owen dumped the water in the bathroom, and replenished the bathing water. He sat on the concrete floor next to Abby and rinsed her hair until it was clean_. Time to christen Blaise's comb._ With practiced care, like a young girl with a treasured doll, Owen straightened her hair. Each stroke pulled a crackly, gray film off, exposing her natural, golden locks. He rinsed the comb in the hot water bucket and continued washing her hair. Slowly Abby's innocent aura returned.

While he combed out the knots of her clean, wet hair, Abby climbed up on his lap and nestled her head in Owen's chest. He pulled her close, resting his lips on the top of her head. When he first started cleaning her, so many years ago, the activity excited him in ways he scarcely understood. Since then, Owen achieved contentment when restoring Abby's humanity. Not just a necessary chore; it was his most satisfying one. Abby's transformation was miraculous. But she had never crawled into his lap before. Owen closed his eyes and distracted himself by counting to infinity.

Abby twisted her head and gazed into his eyes. "Owen," she said. He had to look. Her eyes had reverted to their normal, emerald green, but they were glassy and bloodshot. She grasped Owen by his whiskers and pulled him close. She kissed him with intensity. Owen savored the comfort of her soft lips. Was it just this afternoon that Abby did not speak to him? He held onto the kiss long enough to remember the immorality. _This is weird_. A naked twelve-year-old girl, sitting on his lap and kissing him, tugged at his heart but exposed far more perverse desires. Owen placed both hands on her cheeks and, reluctantly, pushed her away.

"What are you doing, Abby?" he asked. "I wish you would get dressed before you kiss me."

Bewildered, Abby furrowed her brow, "How old are you Owen?"

"I'm eighteen. You know that."

Abby tucked her head back into Owen's chest and whispered, "I thought you said you were twelve."

"That was six years ago."

"It seems like it was only yesterday."

Owen held her tight and pondered this reality. Six years, nearly a third of his life spent with Abby, yet their time together barely registered. The ache did not come solely from the damaged rib. He tried to sort through these conflicting feelings when she managed to compound his confusion.

"Why do you make me kill them?" she asked.

"I don't make you kill anybody. You do it because you need to." Abby nodded her head, but she looked saddened by this reply. That wasn't the answer she wanted. "I'll think about it," Owen said. "I promise."

Abby nestled her head into Owen's chest. He caressed her wet hair gently. After a few moments, Abby whispered, "If you are eighteen, why haven't you tried anything, yet?"

"I don't understand. What do you mean?"

Abby once again looked into Owen's eyes and studied him like some alien creature. "Are you mocking me?"

Owen shook his head. "No."

If it could, Abby's brow became tighter. "Why haven't you forced yourself on me?"

A range of emotions blundered through Owen's thoughts. A cold shiver cascaded from Owen's shoulder's to his toes as the reality of her words struck. That first tingle of excitement transformed into revulsion. _Was she giving permission? _Fetching prey for Abby was wrong, but somehow this seemed infinitely worse. His protective instincts raged._ Did one of her other helpers force themselves on her? I'll kill him! __But that thought was absurd._ They were already long gone. "Is that what you want?" Owen asked.

"No," she shrugged, "it was something they wanted."

'They'; it was plural; more than one person. Owen held her close. "Did you enjoy it?"

"No," Abby protested quietly. "But I won't stop you."

"I couldn't do it," Owen answered abruptly. "I could never hurt you that way." Abby smiled wistfully. Her bloodshot eyes reminded Owen of his mother's eyes. Her breath emitted the coppery smell of blood blended along with the light vapor of alcohol. The pieces of a puzzle fell into place. Ten empty bottles of malt liquor escapism flowed through Abby. "I think you might be a little drunk. Let's finish getting you dressed."

A relieved Owen dressed Abby in the dark t-shirt and denim jeans. He lifted her up and carried her to the mattress. Less than half the weight of the old man, she was a joy to carry. The rib barely hurt. Abby patted Owen on the cheek a few times. "Thank you for taking care of me, Owen. I love you."

Owen knew the declaration was tempered by the alcohol. "I love you, too Abby. Now go to sleep." He laid her on the mattress and covered her in a few blankets.

"You don't have to kill anyone for me," she whispered, "not this week." Inebriated Abby dozed quietly within a few minutes.

Owen opened the port to the mill's small, brick-lined furnace. At six feet across, the furnace was small by steel standards, but it was plenty large for his needs. He stuck his head inside the furnace and gazed upward. The brightening skies exposed a metal cross brace holding the furnace chimney stack in position.

For one last time Owen heaved the old man onto his shoulders. Emptied of blood, he was maybe ten or twenty pounds lighter. He shoved the body through the open port. Abby's blood-stained clothing quickly followed. He decided to add his own jacket with its bloody sleeves to the fuel.

_Almost finished_. Owen once again grabbed the pail. This time he used bleach mixed in water. He wiped down all the bloodstains he could find. When complete, he tossed the dirty sponge and other cleaning materials into the furnace. He noticed a few drops of blood on his jeans. These were the only pants he owned, so he kept them. Several burning wooden planks from the fire followed the items. Owen stared as the old man's coat caught fire. He knew he should pronounce some final words, but he was exhausted. He only said, "Goodbye, old man." He just hoped the young girl in the photo wouldn't miss him. He shut the port with a sense of finality. Mercifully, he didn't know his name.

Removing his shoes exposed puffy white and wrinkled feet. _I have a new pair of socks!_ Owen placed his wet sneakers next to the fire and crawled under several blankets nesting with Abby. As he drifted off to sleep, he mulled over her plea. _Is killing really that much different is from hunting? He chose the victims. He was only fooling himself to consider murder any worse. _Owen promised the sleeping Abby he would try to help more next time.

Satiated and tired, they both slept peacefully through All Soul's Day until the following clear, twilight evening. He dreamed of pale old men who just wanted to be left alone. Content with rest, Owen forgot about his promise to the sleeping Abby for a few weeks. Once again 'the dreads' were over.

November 2, 1988

**Jane Mosi**

Jane descended the dingy staircase into the Blazing Crescent from the upstairs apartment. She prepared the store for the day's business by dusting and vacuuming. Most days she restocked the shelves, but the day before was what she called a 'dead day' … a cold, wet, dreary day without any customers or business. A day more suited to sitting by the fire with a good book and hot chamomile tea.

Jane collected the aromas she chose to use for today's ambiance. She lit a powder of dried white heather in a crucible. Heather was a mild fragrance burned for protection. With Selkie leaving for a few weeks, Jane thought it would be helpful. Next Jane lit a wick leading to a cruet containing oil of barrel cactus blossoms. Cactus blossoms reinforced the endurance of the protection scent. Next she opened a tincture of myrtle extract: the essence of love. Myrtle sharpened the feeling of friendly affection rather than the rapid flame of passionate love. _One more ingredient for the right blend, I think it is with the candles._

While Jane searched, Selkie entered the store from the apartment. "What's that smell?" Selkie wore an understated pair of khaki parachute pants and a gray sweatshirt. She carried a black backpack. She sniffed a few times. "It seems a little sweet. What are you trying for?"

"I have one more ingredient." Jane continued searching through the disorganized drawers of partially burned candles. She found one and sniffed, recoiling from the strong odor – the sting of bittersweet for the harsh truth. "Here it is." She placed it on the counter with the other fragrances and lit the wick. She waved her hand in front of the fragrances to blend them together.

Selkie sniffed deeply at the odor, "It almost smells like … pine cedar. That's the fragrance of hope. What are you hoping for?"

"I think we could all use a little hope." Jane moved in from of her sister, encircled her arms around her sister's neck and held tight. "Make sure you find your way back from Lake Pueblo. I'll miss you." Jane held on for several minutes.

"I'm not worried," Selkie said. "Lake Pueblo is just the gateway. I'm traveling to the Land of the Faerie to join my husband. I won't get lost."

Jane finally released her sister. "I hope you can find yourself."

Selkie and Jane said their farewells. Selkie unlocked and opened the door and stepped outside. She paused staring off into the distance. "Jane, come look at this. You won't believe what I'm seeing."

Jane joined her sister at the door. "What is it?"

"There is smoke coming from the old steel mill." Selkie smiled at her sister. "It's a sign. It's a giant candle of hope. Things are going to get better."

Jane studied the faint wisp of smoke rising from the foundry. "It's a sign, all right. Squatters figured out how to break into the mill. Good for them. That building should be put to some good use."

Selkie peddled her bike toward Lake Pueblo while Jane opened up the store for the first customer of the day. Old Mrs. Lockwood needed a tea to help tolerate her illness. Today was already better than yesterday. Hope endures.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Election Fever

November 8, 1988

**Owen**

Abby was sick and Owen couldn't help her. In the six years since he cared for her, he never had seen her so frail. He agonized through another sleepless night. It frightened him.

A week had passed since Abby satisfied her cravings with the homeless man. The first night, he thought she was suffering from a serious hangover. He endured enough 'morning-afters' following his mother's binges to recognize the symptoms. But Abby's condition deteriorated rapidly. Normally the strength of the partnership, she became lethargic, nearly comatose, and feverish. When Owen should have been caring for his own needs, his thoughts drifted to concern for her safety.

One night she stirred him awake with screams of "Non, l'oncle, non!" while she thrashed about on the mattress. The black cat stood sentry to help monitor her illness.

_How do you treat a fever for Abby?_ He wondered. _I can't just take her to the doctor. _He finally resolved to care for her in the simple ways that he recalled from his childhood. He dampened a towel with frigid water from the bathroom faucet and placed it on her forehead. Whenever it warmed from her fever, he repeated the treatment. Day and night, Owen tended to Abby's care, allowing only a few hours for his own needs. During the nightmarish periods, he stroked her arm to comfort her the way his mother had when he was ill. "Come back to me, my little moon shadow," he pleaded without response. Cold compresses, comfort, and worry were the limits for his doctoring skill.

Early this morning Owen jolted awake when she grabbed his arm emitting a sharp, piercing scream. She rose and stared into Owen's eyes with a fearful, almost meek, expression. "Stay away from the river," she warned softly. "The current is too strong. The river is death." Owen thought she intended to say more, but she folded back down into the mattress and pulled the blanket over her head. His heart racing from the scare, Owen was unable to return to sleep. Abby's fever continued to burn hot and she was shivering from the cold. He renewed the cold compress and returned it to her forehead.

He was in for another rough day, but he was net to get more food and supplies. He had to abandon Abby for a few hours to take care of himself. He kissed her on her blazing hot cheek and left for his rounds of the city.

**Tony Sacco**

Drip … drip … drip the precious red fluid dribbled on the otherwise immaculate document - a seventeen-page report detailing the account of the incident at Club Fusion. Tony sucked on his finger trying to staunch the flow of blood. _It's amazing - the amount of blood from a simple paper cut._ The trifling cut was nothing … a minor annoyance. The blood was altogether worse. Taken for granted over so many years, it was his nemesis. His wife told him the chances of infection were low, but doubt riled him. The test couldn't be completed for months. Until then, he remained in societal limbo.

Today was Tony's first day back to work. His fellow police station personnel had been cordial, but distant, since his return. If he was forced him to answer the question of how he was feeling one more time, somebody was going to get shot. He felt fine, for what it was worth.

He, Roberto Prindle, and Jesse Corrle were all assigned to desk work pending administrative review of the Club Fusion debacle. He had milked his leave as long as he could bear with the knowledge of the awaiting pile of monotonous administrative duty. Chief Edwards surprisingly understood and approved Tony's week long leave. Now, back at work, Tony wondered if this compassion arose, not from goodwill, but from a desire to avoid facing the disconcerting facts behind his 'condition'. He had been the subject of considerable gossip in his absence.

Everybody else's report had been completed. All that was left was Tony's account to close the books on the incident. The final report would then be handed over to the District Attorney and Internal Affairs. Tony embedded the report with venomous language condemning Club Fusion and the spitter. Perhaps it was less than professional, but he longed for his share of revenge. With a favorable report, the three of them could return to patrol within days.

The paper cut damaged him more than the virus. It reminded him how loathsome and destructive paperwork could be. Tony grimaced at the bloody cover sheet. Now he will have to retype it.

A rich coffee smell sent an autoimmune euphoria through his lungs and down his spine. His entire body felt warmer as the aroma approached. Nancy Cutshaw, the department's aging and enthusiastic administrative assistant, rounded the cubicle corner with a fresh mug in hand. She had been there so long, that she ran the place – with the chief's assistance. Friendly and outgoing Nancy had been very supportive of Tony on his return. "How's the report coming, Tony? Do you need anything? I brought you a cup of coffee."

Tony began to answer his "thanks" when he noticed Nancy hand with the coffee stopped in mid-air staring at the pool of blood forming on the cubicle desk and report cover. "Could you get me a bandage?" Tony asked with a nervous laugh.

"S...s...sure," Nancy replied. She anxiously placed the mug on the far corner of the desk.

Returning a few moments later with Band Aids, disinfectant and paper towels. "Here you go." Nancy handed Tony the materials. She was shaking.

"It's okay, Nancy. I'm not contagious. I may not even be sick."

Nancy nodded and backed away without a word. Included with the materials was Ziploc bag. _ I guess that's where I'm supposed to dispose of my medical waste._

After bandaging up his finger and cleaning up his desk, Tony retyped the coversheet for the report. That was about as productive a morning as he could expect when dedicated to paperwork.This afternoon augured uncomfortable interviews with Internal Affairs. He proudly carried the finished report over to Nancy's desk for delivery to the chief. Several others loitered at her desk crouched in whispered discussion. Startled by his approach, they waved a quick 'goodbye' and separated.

"What was that powwow all about?"

"Oh, nothing," Nancy said with a dismissive wave. She seems to have recovered from her earlier misgivings.

Being nearly lunchtime, Tony decided to search out Roberto. They weren't supposed to discuss the events of the Club Fusion incident until after the inquiry was complete, but Tony hoped lunch was okay. He found Roberto embedded within another small crowd of office gossips. David Oliveri, the department's public affairs officer stabbed his index finger at the air. He was one of those loud whisperers when delivering a passionate argument, "Don't let that gruff exterior fool you. He's as queer as Rock Hudson, I tell you. That's why they adopted a child." Several members of the clique nodded in agreement.

Oliveri topped off the morning's frustrations. Tony bulldozed angrily into the fray. "You dumbfuck, gossip pigs. You know what happened! My wife can't have children, as if that is any of your business."

Roberto pushed Tony aside. To the group, Roberto said, "He's right guys. Stop the chatter." He continued to pull on Tony, "Don't let them bother you. They don't know what happened at Club Fusion; the inquiry is sealed until it is complete."

"What were you doing talking with those idiots?" Gossip was a disease that spread like wildfire.

"I was defending you, which is difficult since I can't say anything. Ignore them. They're just worried about the inquest. Let's go out to lunch … my treat."

"The inquest? That should just be a formality, right? We didn't do anything wrong."

"You never know how the suits will see it. They seem to think that I overreacted when I started beating the shit out of that homo. They're worried we might get sued by him or the owner of the Club. Some of these guys see it as their job - they don't want to appear soft on a police officer brutality."

Tony thought through his report in this new light. He didn't think he wrote anything detrimental for Roberto. "I think you'll be all right. I'll support you during the interviews. I can't wait to get back on the street. Basketball tomorrow night, right? That should take our minds of this inquest."

"Right. We need to whoop those guys from Firehouse Twelve."

**Gabriella Agosto**

Gabriella watched in horror as Rufus T. Barleysmith decided to make the closing of the shelter an election-day photo opportunity. Snow flurries fell from the solid mass of dark gray clouds, while Barleysmith shined in the glorious adulation.

Here was the final of a long line of charismatic speeches before he greeted voters at the polls. News cameras were arrayed outside the shelter in full force to cover the election-day extravaganza. This particular event came as a surprise gift to Barleysmith's campaign staff. He didn't even have the opportunity to arrange the proper city permits. Fewer than the normal Barleysmith bootlickers were available on short notice, but he managed to attract a lively crowd. A final chance to rally the Republican faithful.

Residents were mustered in the cafeteria waiting for their expulsion. It was death row quiet. Even the children knew something was wrong. Gabriella smiled tenderly at the wheel chair bound Vincent Neal. With only one arm, he could barely maneuver within the shelter. _Where is he going to stay tonight?_ She then spotted Isabel Clark cradling her baby with her two other children encircled around each leg. Their eyes … they way the darted down and to the side before focusing on Gabriella conveyed the horror and worry that today was alarmingly different.

Father Erasmus shared smiles and playfulness with the residents. He caught sight of Gabriella and meandered in her direction. "You didn't need to be here," he said to her. "You should be attending classes."

"I wanted to be here to support everybody. You don't look upset at all about the closing. How can you be so cheerful?"

"I am who I choose to be," Padre shrugged. "My attitude won't stop the closing of the shelter, but I hope these people will remember my joy rather than the despair." She and Padre returned to the street as Barleysmith began his imbecilic spiel.

With the microphone and camera crews ready, Barleysmith blustered, "Today we witness the closing of the Wayside Hope Shelter. Some people will mourn the loss of this sanctuary. But I believe it is a great day for Pueblo! The residents of the shelter have been living off of public goodwill for years. They are not productive members of our society because nobody expects them to be productive members of society. These people stand at the front line of the battle against economic ineptitude. We have not been doing them any favors."

Each sentence felt like a dagger ripping at Gabriella's soul. Barleysmith's ignorant message crippled her mission along with her pride. She had dedicated years to the poorest and downtrodden only to have it destroyed in one morning of political grandstanding. She seethed with the disgust so strong that it was nearly debilitating.

"I believe that good things come from he who provides for himself. The book says, '_Work hard so God can say to you, 'Well done.' Be a good workman, one who does not need to be ashamed when God examines your work._' With labor comes the pride of accomplishment. A pride so lost on those who accept public handouts. Today is the day this will change. Today is the day we tell them there is no more free ride. Today is the day we restore pride to the downtrodden. And all of Pueblo will benefit!"

Barleysmith continued to echo the benefits of personal responsibility. The crowd knew their cues, cheering loudly at his empty words. Gabriella joined in the few ineffective smattering of "boos" heard among the assembled. Father Erasmus watched quietly, taking in the speech. "Good quote," was all he said when Rufus quoted the Bible. She was shocked at his cavalier attitude. Her entire self worth was built by this shelter.

Gabriella glared at the carnage from in front in the street with her two closest friends - Father Erasmus and abject contempt. "What are we going to do, Padre? We can't let them get away with treating the shelter as a campaign slogan."

"We will do what we can. I have a plan." He winked at Gabriella. "It is not so grand a plan that we will be able to keep the shelter open, but it is the best I can do under the circumstances."

Barleysmith wrapped up the short speech and accepted the felicitous backslapping of his sycophants. Several of the news cameras moved in for a personal interview with the mayoral candidate.

While they were winding down, Father Erasmus opened the door to the shelter and motioned the assembled residents out of the building. One by one, hauling their few belongings, they carved their way through the crowd in a distressing exodus. Their mismatched and ragged clothing attested to their impoverished station; most of them were well under-dressed for the coming winter. Nearly a hundred people left the shelter. Demented, nearly toothless old men who could barely identify which direction to move, young runaways who could not understand why they were leaving, and families with small children were all banished to the streets.

The last ones to leave were the Clark family. Lazarus's cold had flared to a raging bacterial infection. Caleb turned to Gabriella and asked, "Where do we go now?"

"I don't know," she answered. She wanted to take them home her, but she knew the Pueblo State dormitories were not the best place for a homeless family.

Father Erasmus answered with a confidence Gabriella did not share, "Isabel, take Lazarus to the Emergency Room. He needs some immediate care. I'm not sure what the rest of you can do, but the hospital may let you spend the night there while they attend Lazarus." He handed Isabel a ten dollar bill to help with their needs for the night. "With luck, we'll be closed for only a few weeks."

The television cameras caught the pathetic departure of those from the shelter. Padre's plan unfolded. Barleysmith's broadcast of his spiteful pronouncements, followed by the reality of the unemployable underbelly he chose to avoid. Barleysmith's words were not nearly sufficient to capture the eloquence of despair within those pictures. The cameras filmed the exodus while Barleysmith's followers averted their eyes, shading their disregard under a veil of blithe ignorance. Instead, they milled about, discussing campaign strategy and political appointments after their election victory.

Gabriella refused to accept this indifference. She weaved through the ambivalent crowd, crying to anyone who would listen, "Look at them! Those are the people you are abandoning. Which one of you will give them a job?" She pointed at one of the well-dressed politicos in the crowd, "You?" He shook his head staring to the ground. She pointed to another, "You?" … another shake of the head.

She found herself staring into the face of Barleysmith where her temper shifted into overdrive. She slapped him smartly across the face knocking his glasses askew. She pointed to Vincent Neal, one of the downtrodden, slowly propelling his wheel chair down the sidewalk with his one good arm. "Are you going to give him a job?"

Barleysmith rubbed his reddened check and answered, "I believe … it's fair to say … that if you give a man a fish you can feed him for a day, but if you teach a man to fish you feed him for life. We're just giving them that little push to make it on their own."

Stunned Gabriela smacked across the other cheek, "Pendejo! Take your meaningless platitudes with yourself on the way to hell! Who are you teaching to fish? The Arkansas River is dead. You can cast your line all day and not catch a damn thing. What are you going to do when these people start dropping in the street? Half of them will be gone by the end of the week, not having learned a thing. Can you accept that? Look at them!" He turned to walk away, searching for support among his lackeys. She grabbed him by the lapel, "I said look at them! You disgust me with your declaration of responsibility. You can't even look upon the faces of those you are condemning. Me cago en la madre que te parió!" Gabriella was so angry that spittle flew from her mouth on that last insult.

With the quiet following her censure they both noticed the crowd's attention being drawn to the direction of Vincent Neal. He prepared to roll across the street at the corner. The "don't walk" sign flashing bright orange. Rushing to beat the changing streetlight a city bus had just collected its complement of travelers and pulled away from its stop.

With his one good arm and a broad grin, Vincent waved in the direction of Gabriella and Rufus. Then he gave a little push on the wheel rolling directly in front of the accelerating bus.

Someone in the crowd let out a whispered, "Oh my God!" The cameras quickly veered to capture the newsworthy event. Vincent's wheel chair caromed off the front bumper with the nauseating clash. The bus driver squealed his breaks in desperation. Vincent flew into the next traffic lane before becoming crushed beneath the passenger side tire of an oncoming silver Cadillac. Mesmerized, the crowd silently watched a tiny river of blood trickle toward the street drain.

Horrified, Gabriella found herself still grasping Barleysmith's lapel. With snowflakes burning her tearful eyes, she stared into the face of evil with hatred and said, "That's one. How many more?"

Gabriella let her grip relax and she sprinted to the accident scene. Padre arrived first. With his fingers on Vincent's neck, he gave a sad shake of his head and blessed himself. The growing crowd, a mix of shelter residents and inquisitive townspeople looked on as the emergency personnel arrived. Gabriella noticed the shiny, new Lincoln Continental with official city plates leaving the area without much fanfare.

Several hours later with the emergency vehicles having cleared the scene, the evolving crowd of onlookers began to disband. _Maybe we should have sold tickets to raise money for the shelter_, Gabriella thought, still shaking from the day's events. Barleysmith's lackeys left long ago for a meeting at another, quieter location. One of the TV crews was setting up to interview Father Erasmus. He evoked sympathy for the victim and provided a lively defense of the shelter, letting the audience know of the repairs and needs. He closed with a plea for prayers and a promise to try to have the shelter open by Thanksgiving, with God and the audience's help, of course.

With the excitement over and the news crew packing their supplies Father Erasmus placed his arm around Gabriella's shoulders. "It looks like you will have a few weeks to concentrate on your studies." Padre paused for a few minutes. "I should probably tell you … the eviction notice for the shelter was signed by Edwin Hornswoggle."

"The current mayor? Barleysmith's opponent?"

"The very one. Evil is not always what it appears to be. Barleysmith may be full of bluster, but he helped our cause more than hurt us today."

"He didn't help Vincent."

"No, he didn't. Let me continue," Padre said. "Last night I called Rufus and informed him about the closure of the shelter. He was more than happy to bring the faithful for one last election event. In turn, we received some free publicity. It may even embarrass the city council to allow the shelter to reopen early."

Gabriella gasped. "What did I say to Barleysmith? And I slapped him…several times. I feel terrible."

Father Erasmus laughed, "I was pretty impressed with your ferocity. I wouldn't worry about Rufus. I think he'll wear the slap like a badge of honor," Father Erasmus said. "I didn't catch every insult you announced, but that 'pendejo' rang clear."

"You don't think that will make afternoon news, do you?" Gabriella blushed from the memory. She paused considering the sad events of the morning. "That still doesn't help Mr. Neal. It was awful to watch him wheel his way into the path of that bus."

Padre rubbed his beard in thought. "I think old Vincent had his final triumph today. He died better than he lived. Without the shelter he was in store for a rough couple of weeks. I'm more worried about the drivers. They didn't get off so easy."

"In that case who am I supposed to vote for today? The candidate who stands for everything I detest, but accomplishes good things or the candidate who says all of the right things while closing the shelter. Just thinking about it makes my head spin." She mockingly grabbed her head. "Who are you voting for?"

"You think I would vote for any of those hypocrites?" He sniffed at the air pulling Gabriella toward the shelter. "I think I smell some coffee brewing. Let's go back inside for one final toast to Vincent."

**Aileen Sacco**

"What's a five letter word for aromatic wood used in chests?" Aileen asked Amy Ott, her coworker on the day shift at the emergency room. "The middle letter is 'd'."

"Try 'cedar'." Amy answered while she was wiping down the already clean reception counter.

"Thanks. I think that'll work. Do you know what I hate more than crossword puzzles?" Aileen entered the letters into the puzzle.

"What's that?" Amy answered

"Nothing. As in, I hate when I have nothing to do besides crossword puzzles. I'm glad I signed up for the excitement of the emergency room." Aileen twirled her pencil between her fingers while she studied the newspaper's daily crossword puzzle.

"You might be in luck, I overheard on the police band that a pedestrian was hit by a car on Jefferson. Maybe we'll get a little excitement."

"It's seems kind of twisted to hope that somebody gets hurt just to cure my boredom."

"We are a hospital after all. Curing is our business." Amy played with the radio receiver dial for better reception. "Sorry to disappoint you. The pedestrian was killed in the accident. It sounds like the morgue is going to get all of the excitement this morning."

Aileen grunted her acknowledgment. Three more crossword answers later, Aileen glanced up when at the ding of the hospital automatic entrance doors sliding doors open. A blond woman carried an infant entered with two older boys. "Please take a look at my son. He's very sick."

Aileen waved them over to the admissions desk. "Which one?"

The mother pointed at her oldest. "What's your name, young man?" Aileen asked.

She answered for him, "Lazarus Clark."

After discovering that they didn't have any insurance, or a permanent address, Aileen completed as much of the paperwork as she could. She then led Lazarus back to the evaluation area, and she allowed the others to tag along.

Aileen lifted Lazarus up on the hospital bed and began to check his vital signs. He was running a fever. She placed a tongue depressor in his mouth, "Say _ah_." He complied. His throat was covered in white sores. _I have seen these symptoms often enough. This is depressing for a young boy._ "How old are you Lazarus?"

Isabel answered again, "He's ten. He just has a bad cold or flu. He just can't seem to shake it."

_Ten? He doesn't look older than eight._ "If you wouldn't mind letting Lazarus answer…I would like to hear his voice." Aileen tried to engage Lazarus in a little more conversation. "Have you ever been diagnosed with anything more serious?" She meant it as a leading question. As a nurse, she could not diagnose him, but she could ask questions. With his droopy eyes continuing to stare at the floor, he nodded. "Like what?"

"I have AIDS." There it was; the elephant in the room. While she continued to check Lazarus, the other child explored the draped off area. He had pulled out a wad of cotton balls and was testing how high he could stack them. "What's your name?" Aileen asked him.

"Caleb," he answered.

"Do you have AIDS, too?"

"No … I have HIV, but someday I may be like my brother." Caleb continued to stack the cotton balls.

Aileen looked at the mother. Isabel answered the unasked question, "Yes, I'm infected, too! What does this have to do with Lazarus? He's the one who is sick here."

"Can you remove your shirt, Lazarus?" She handed him one of those high class hospital robes that tie in the back. To Isabel she said, "This is important information for the doctor. You should have let me know right away. For most children a cold is no big deal. For Lazarus, it could be life or death. What about the baby, has she been checked yet?"

Isabel's bloodshot eyes teared up. "Please just help us. You don't understand. Everybody judges us. We are lower than filth. Yes, we have AIDS. No, my baby hasn't been tested. I forbid it! I would rather she die, not knowing."

Aileen placed a comforting, latex covered hand on Isabel's shoulder. "It is okay. We won't judge you here. We are legally prohibited from telling anybody outside of the CDC. But your baby needs to be tested. I will be going to get the doctor. Wait right here."

The doctor arrived and diagnosed Lazarus with first stage pneumonia after listening to his chest. He prescribed antibiotics and strong anti-viral agents. He was admitted to the hospital for treatment and bed rest. He also checked over the rest of the family. Isabel also had a mild fever and he ordered her to bed rest, as well.

As quickly as he arrived the doctor was off to see another patient. _Another patient? I thought it was a quiet morning_. While waiting for the orderly to take Lazarus to his room, Aileen engaged him in casual conversation. "Do you go to school?" He nodded. "Really? Where?"

Lazarus coughed through his raw, seldom used throat before he whispered, "Thatcher Elementary School."

_Thatcher? That's where Javier goes_. "That's kind of a rough school. Are you friendly with any of the other children there?" Aileen asked.

"I keep to myself," Lazarus said. "But sometimes other kids pick a fight. They can run faster than I can."

Aileen had no doubt. She worried that Javier may be one of those children picking a fight with consequences more dangerous than losing his Nintendo rights. _I'm going to have to check with him. Blood from this child would be dangerous._

Aileen wandered out to the emergency room receiving area where she was surprised to find a full complement of patients occupying all of the available seating and many camping out on the floor. "Excuse me sir. There is no smoking in here." She hollered to nobody in particular. "Who's next?"

Several people approached the desk all at once. "I have an infected finger." One apparently homeless person offered. "I have a cold," called out another. "I wrenched my neck when a wheel chair flew under my car. I have insurance," a third offered helpfully.

"What happened? Why are there so many people here today?" Aileen asked to the first patients at her desk.

The man with the infected finger said above the clamor, "The shelter closed today. I guess we all need a little attention."

_Great. It's a babysitting day._ Aileen picked up the phone to contact some on-call help. This was going to be a long day. _And I thought I had my hands full with Javier._

**Owen**

Owen could not understand his failure at begging this morning. His sign received a lot of attention, but very little money. He had started early, he selected a favorable location on the steps at the entrance to the Pueblo train station, and he chose a patriotic slogan to appeal to the typical Pueblanite. Owen gravely needed money for another coat and some clothes for Abby. He had seen other beggars with similar signs receiving a lot of donations. There was no good explanation for the lack of success.

Someone gave him a quarter chuckling "What you were you … three years old? That's a funny one kid. Here's some money for the laugh. Next time you should consider Grenada."

_That does it!_ Owen thanked the man for his quarter and tossed the sign in the garbage. He was going to have to find an appeal other than "Vietnam Vet, please help". It seemed like such a good idea. The winds that swirled in the train station overhang stung his bare arms. Six dollars was all he had to show for his effort. A week since Owen tossed his jacket in the fire, and he still didn't have enough to buy a new one. Some difficult choices lay ahead – food first, then a coat, then clothes for Abby, then supplies. _How can I stretch six dollars?_

On his way to the grocery store he noticed a lot more people loitering on the streets. Panhandlers were spaced every few feet. The park was entertained by a toothless musician whose guitar was missing a few strings. Several other vagrants were scattered about. Each time the police chased them away; a few more took their place. For the first time since Owen arrived in Pueblo, the normal citizens were outnumbered by beggars, many of whom he didn't recognize. _Where did they come from?_

He strolled around the back of the grocery store to check out today's menu from the discards. To his dismay he found garbage scattered everywhere surrounding the Dumpster – plastic and paper, but no food. _Some slob has already rifled through this bin. This area is trashed! _ so to speak.

Stunned by the pile of useless refuse, Owen was caught off guard by the arrival of the store's security guard. "Get away from here!" Scampering away, he saw another employee arriving to clean up the mess. He had been spoiled by the generosity of the Safeway Supermarket, but today the well ran dry, and Owen was hungry. _I need to find another diner._

Owen wandered the city streets searching. He found a Dumpster behind a popular restaurant. This one was already emptied by the trash hauler. He spotted a third trash bin behind a produce store along with another mess and no food. His hollow gut burned with hunger. A small drink of melting ice from a downspout helped satisfy him for now. If he did not find something soon, he may need to waste his money on food.

Owen found his way to the now familiar location of the Blazing Crescent. The bell tinkled. indicating his arrival. "Hello Owen," Jane said from the front register. "What can I do for you today?" The store was otherwise empty this afternoon. Owen was disappointed at finding only Jane working. Selkie seemed a lot more open to unusual ideas.

Owen sniffed. The odor reminded him of a friend's pet running the wheel to nowhere. "What's that smell? A hamster cage?"

"It's the smell of cedar – the scent of hope," Jane said sniffing at the air. She lifted a box up on her counter and slit it open with box cutters. Inside were some music discs.

"What are you hoping for?" Owen asked her.

"The question is 'what are you hoping for?'" Jane answered in a rote fashion.

"Right now, I would be happy for a little food," Owen said. _But I would also settle for a way to cure blood cravings._

Jane shrugged. "I'm not sure I can help you there."

"Maybe I will look through some of your books." Owen rummaged through the book shelves. _What's a chakra?_ Buried on the rack was a dusty old tome about death rituals. Among other things, it suggested separating the head from the neck and surrounding the gravesite with salt. _That's no help. I know that breaking the neck is enough to stop the progress of the infection. Beheading seems a little extreme. And what's with the salt?_

Finding nothing more of interest in the books, Owen glanced up at Jane. She continued to check through her ledgers while unloading a box of music. She seemed to be growing comfortable with Owen's presence in the store. Unlike outside, the store was nice and warm. Maybe he could find a way to spend some more time here and earn a little money on the side. "What are you doing?" Owen asked out of genuine curiosity.

"I'm receiving a shipment. Checking it against my orders and recording it in inventory – things like that."

Owen glanced at some of the titles such as _Hammock Hanging Between the Betel Tree_, _Call of the Shaman_, and _Fairy by the Moonlight_. He wondered what kind of music it was. "Do you need any help?" he asked.

Jane smiled at the request, "No thank you. I think I can manage." She continued to unload the box while trying to ignore Owen's scrutiny.

"I don't suppose you're hiring anybody right now?"

She waved her arms to indicate the nearly empty store. "Do you think I need some help to handle the massive crowd?"

"How about cleaning or something?" Then he really reached, "or maybe some consulting? I can help. Really I can."

Jane gave Owen a knowing smile, "I can't afford to hire any help right now. I can barely afford myself." She paused from unpacking the boxes resting her arms on the counter. It was Owen's turn to wilt under the penetrating examination. "Why are you here, Owen?"

Owen shrugged, "It was cold outside."

Jane laughed. "I guess it is, especially when you don't have a coat. But I mean why you are in Pueblo? This city is dead. There are no jobs here. Are you running from something?"

Owen had no idea how to answer that question. He had not given it much thought. "It was the next city on the way." That answer didn't sound right to him. "I'm too busy running to remember what I'm running from. Maybe I'm running from my own shadow."

"I don't think you will find any peace in Pueblo. If you ever get the chance to stop running and think about your future you might figure out that life is better where you started from." Jane rooted around the cabinets beneath the register and pulled out a lunch bag. Within the bag she found an apple. "I can't afford to hire anybody right now, but you can have this apple. At least that might help satisfy you. That's about all I can do. I can't let you leave hungry."

"Thanks," Owen said. He bit into the apple and the juice ran down his chin. It was tart and delicious. He wolfed the entire fruit, core and all. Jane handed him a paper towel to wipe the juice off of his hands. Without the towel, Owen might have begun chewing on his fingers. Somewhat satisfied, Owen asked, "Do you think your sister might be back soon with some answers for my questions?"

"Who knows? It could be tomorrow, or it could be a couple more weeks." Unconsciously Jane stared in the direction of Lake Pueblo.

"I'll check back another day. Thanks for the apple." Owen said as he left the store. Either from the apple or the scent he left with a little more hope than he entered. The apple increased his energy, but whetted his appetite. He was hungrier now than before. The search through the Blazing Crescent's bookshelves had given him a new idea. A library could be an enormous, free resource. _I wonder where the nearest library is._

Outside of the store, he caught sight of a pigeon which had the tempting appearance of a meal.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

How Does a River Die?

November 8, 1988

**Owen**

The pigeon rested on a parking meter. Normally, he would ignore such things, but he was starving. With empty Dumpsters everywhere, here was an opportunity that he couldn't overlook. He dived to grab the bird, but his damaged rib throbbed in pain throwing off his reach. The bird escaped and skipped a block away. With the prey in sight Owen decided to give chase.

He advanced on the resting bird once again. As soon as he came within a few feet, the pigeon leaped away. _Dammit! He may not be worth it._

Owen followed the poultry around the next street. He found a plank of wood nestled in the corner between a building and the sidewalk. He picked it up to use it as a club and returned to the hunt. The street circled around to the bridge, and the pigeon settled on a handrail. It kept just ahead of Owen's swings across the railroad tracks running parallel to the river. Hungry, he raced after it with his chest heaving against the sore rib. Before the pigeon escaped across the bridge, Owen gave one desperate thwack with the plank. _ Got him!_

Fresh from his victory he noticed a familiar person with a gray ponytail watching from across the river. Owen completed the river crossing to the bank beneath the Fourth Street Bridge where he greeted the friendly face, "Hello Blaise."

Blaise returned the greeting. Owen followed Blaise's gaze across the river. The turbulent river rushed around a small island refuge before flowing under the Fourth Street Bridge. A solitary, gnarled cedar tree rose from the north end of the island. The evergreen stood out as one of the few, isolated gifts of nature in this cold, dark city. A gentle reminder of Owen's rural roots, the tree stirred memories of his long forgotten parents. _I wonder what they are doing. Do they ever think of me?_

Owen spotted a figure wading in the river around the island carrying a net. He struggled against the current reaching for something adjacent to the tiny island. "Is that Greg fishing?" Owen asked. "That's brilliant. I could use a bite to eat. Maybe you could teach me."

"He's fishing all right, but I don't think you will want to eat what he is finding. There are no fish in the Arkansas River. The river is dead."

"Are you kidding? How does a river die?" Owen wondered.

"Over the years acids and metals from mining activity washed into the river making it uninhabitable." Owen never considered the red stain along the river bank. He thought it was just mud. The water did reek of a chemical odor. He would never try to drink it.

Greg started wading over to the river bank hauling a plastic garbage bag full of trash. "Won't the river make Greg sick?"

"The river is filled with heavy metals... and a few light ones like aluminum. We take the cans to the recycling center for a nickel apiece."

"A nickel? That doesn't sound like much. How many cans do you have?"

"Today we've probably collected over four hundred."

Owen calculated the total in his head. "That seems like a lot of work for only twenty dollars," he said casually.

Greg reached the edge of the river and threw the full bag up on the bank. Blaise and Owen reached down to help him out of the freezing water. "Only twenty dollars?" Greg asked. "How much have you collected this week?"

"Now that you mention it … much less than that. Twenty dollars sounds like a fortune." Owen noticed that Greg was wearing plastic garbage bags over each of his shoes and legs. "There's another one of a million uses for plastic garbage bags. How did the homeless survive before they were invented?"

While removing his makeshift hip waders, a cut on Greg's index finger broke open and began to bleed heavily. When Blaise asked about it, Greg told him that he cut it on some loose rebar sticking out from one of the bridge's support columns. "Let's take care of that by the fire." Blaise offered. "Owen has brought some dinner."

They carried the full garbage bags to a cavern created between the bridge and the river bank. A small camp containing the remains of a fire and a few logs existed under the bridge abutment. Through the columns Owen caught sight of the mill furnace stack. He was that close. The smell of charcoal irritated Owen's nose, but he welcomed the warmth of the fire. "Is this where you guys spend the night?"

"Sometimes," Blaise said. "We spend our nights wherever it is convenient and warm." Blaise unfolded a pocket knife he took out of his pants and stirred the coals with the tip restoring the fire to life. He left the open blade on the ground next to the fire. "What are you planning to do with that pigeon?" He asked Owen.

"I was going to cook it for dinner. I've been having a hard time finding food today. I can't find any full Dumpsters anywhere. The vagrant delivery truck seems to have made a few extra stops in the city."

"Yeah, the shelter closed this morning. I think you may be in for a tough couple of weeks. Start plucking the bird. We'll cook it up here."

Owen was feeling a little possessive of his pigeon. It was tough to catch, and he wasn't sure when he would find any more. Failing to develop an excuse to avoid sharing, he removed the feathers and handed the bare bird to Blaise. It looked a lot smaller without its feathers. _Not much meat for three._

Blaise removed the knife from the ground. With one quick swipe he separated the pigeon's head. He held it up by its legs allowing the blood to drain. Owen studied the pooling blood, bewitched by the crimson flow. "Is that the simplest way to remove all the blood from the body?" Owen asked almost in a whisper. The ramifications of the question echoed loudly in his thoughts - an insight to an idea he hadn't considered before.

"With one large vein in the neck gravity does the rest of the work." Blaise answered. "The blood can make you sick. It's a lot tougher to drain all of the blood if it isn't a fresh kill." He shook the last remnant of free-flowing liquid out of the bird. Using the pocketknife, Blaise disemboweled the remaining carcass and discarded the entrails and feet in the river.

Behind a large rock, Blaise uncovered a hole in the bridge abutment. Blaise granted Owen a lot of trust by casually revealing the discreet hiding place. Inside Blaise found a roll of aluminum foil and wrapped it tight around the bird. He placed the bird on top of the foil and the package into the fire. "It's easy to get sick from raw pigeon. You have to be careful how you cook it." Blaise placed the tip of the pocket knife in the fire. The blood crackled from the edge of the blade as it boiled away.

Then Blaise reached into the crevice in the abutment pulling out a few onions. He tossed one each to Greg and Owen and bit down on the third. When he was younger Owen hated onion on everything. Now he enjoyed biting directly into the onion skin like an apple. "Pigeon and onion … nothing better," Greg said.

After finishing his onion, Blaise leaned over to Owen, "You seem to be favoring your side, let me take a look." Owen pulled his shirt out of his pants and raised it, exposing his ribs. It looked worse than he thought. His ribs were purple and swollen. Owen drew a sharp inward breath in pain when Blaise placed a few fingers on the sore spot. The breath itself exaggerated the pain in his rib. "It looks like it could be broken. What happened?"

_How do I explain that? _ Owen wondered. _Not many accident stories begin with a small bell and a vial of holy water. If I were clever, I'm sure there is a joke in there somewhere._ "I fell," Owen lied. "I can be pretty clumsy."

"You must have fallen pretty far. It looks broken. You could have it checked out at the hospital," Blaise said. "It's not my favorite place, but we could go there after we eat, if you want."

"What would they do if it is broken?" Owen asked.

"Probably nothing. There's not much they can do with a rib. They can't put it in a cast." Blaise said. "You should still see the doctor in case there is more damage than just a rib."

"I can do 'nothing' on my own. I don't need to make a trip to the hospital," Owen said. _It's been a week and it seems to be getting better. _

Blaise shrugged at Owen's argument. "They can give you some pain medication that should help."

"I'll think about it," Owen said a little more curtly than he intended. He wasn't going to think about it.

After a few minutes, Blaise pulled the pocketknife from the fire and motioned to Greg. "Let me see your finger." Greg offered his index finger still bleeding from the wound. Blaise pulled the knife blade out of the fire and positioned the dull edge over the laceration.

Owen reacted strongly, "Don't do that! It could burn!"

"I hope so," Greg said. "How else will it cauterize the wound?"

Blaise said in explanation, "Fire can destroy, but it can also purify or strengthen. It's almost as useful as garbage bags. Today we need it to purify." With practiced care Blaise rolled the hot blade over the gash. Greg's winced as his finger sizzled from the contact of the blade. Before long the bleeding stopped. "Let's see if that pigeon is cooked."

The three enjoyed on the juicy pigeon. The little bit of meat whetted Owen's appetite and gave him needed strength. In the conversation by the fire, Owen asked about nearby libraries. "Try the university," Blaise suggested. "The library is huge."

"It's warm, too." Greg added. "Usually they don't kick you out, neither … not so long as you pretend to be researching something."

"I don't even need to pretend. I really have research to do," Owen said.

"It's pretty far by foot," Blaise said. "It will be dark if you try to reach it today."

"I'll try another day." Owen stood up and brushed off his pants. Blaise tossed him a pear for desert. Owen considered the produce a fair trade for the meat. "You should savor every meal for awhile," Blaise cautioned. "It will be a few weeks before the streets are clear again." Owen headed back to the mill to check on Abby. He took the long way around to hide his destination. He thought he could trust Blaise and Greg with any secrets, except one … Abby. He didn't believe he could trust anyone with that secret.

**Javier Sacco**

The politics of the elementary school playground shifted with the rapidity of the wind. Less than two weeks since Javier spent the night in prison; fame was losing its tarnish. Now every tough kid in the school, trying to earn his playground "cred," challenged Javier. If only things would return to the way they were before his brief flirtation with notoriety when he was simply ignored.

Recess after lunch and Javier positioned himself alone at the far wall trying to avoid the loutish trio of Raymond, Gary and Bobby. They would be stereotypically funny if they weren't so threatening. Gary and Bobby glared with their best tough guy looks while Raymond shoved him in the shoulder. "Look at this beaner. I think they're missing you at the farm. Avocados are in season." The other boys laughed at the slur.

Javier ignored the tightening in his chest. A silent, menacing stare was the best response he could muster without gasping for breath. With these oafs it was the best choice anyway. "Maybe he can't even understand what we're saying," Gary said with another shove. The three all laughed. _Perhaps this is what passes for 'funny' in their world._

"Hey, do you guys know what this taco picks in the off-season?" Gary asked. The other two shook their heads. "His nose." All three laughed. _ I was wrong, their jokes are even worse._

Javier's quiet stare was having its intended effect. The laughter was becoming more and more disjointed. Javier hoped they left him alone soon. The tightness in his chest grew unbearable. He was having difficulty breathing. "Look at his eyes. I think he's going to cry." Raymond was trying to act tough, but the effect was ruined when he stuttered, unnerved by Javier's silent, piercing stare.

"Mr. Williams is coming over," Gary said. "I think it is time to let Pedro return to all of his friends."

Javier escaped around the corner of the elementary school. He was 'out of bounds' from the playground. He dropped to his knees wheezing, shook his inhaler, and placed it between his lips. Two presses and the medicine found its way into his lungs. He began to relax by the time Mr. Williams rounded the corner. "Are you okay, Javier?" Mr. Williams received another surly glare. "Let's go back to the playground. You're not supposed to be out here."

After recess, Javier changed for gym with the inhaler tucked into the pocket of his trunks. The class collected in the converted cafeteria with all of the tables pushed to the side. Today was rope climbing – a ridiculous sport never intended for elementary age students. Miss Jones, the young and pretty gym teacher, opened the class with "Who wants to try it first?"

Most of the boys volunteered trying to impress their teacher. She selected two of the boys to start for the two ropes dangling from the ceiling. They were knotted for better traction. For these two boys the knots provided little help. Miss Jones blew the whistle and they both started up the rope. After a few tugs, their nearly useless arms were shaking. About four feet into the air they both had enough. They dropped to the floor. Miss Jones declared it a tie.

Following those two, Miss Jones chose two giggling girls to try the rope. Jennifer laughed loudly as she dangled from the thick rope unable to advance even one notch. The second girl was declared the winner after pulling herself up a couple of feet. The class gave a weak clap for the limited effort.

Now it was the boys turn again. "Raymond," Miss Jones called out. "Take rope number one. And for the challenger ..."

"I'll do it," Javier said advancing to the second rope.

"Are you sure that is a good idea, Javier?" Miss Jones asked. "You can take a pass on this exercise."

"I'm fine," Javier said. "Blow your whistle." Raymond laughed at the spectacle, but the rest of the class watched in silent wonder.

Miss Jones blew her whistle and the boys started up the rope. After a few feet, Javier's arms began to ache, but he pulled higher. Another notch in the rope brought on more anguish. He ignored his quivering arms and pulled another notch higher. Halfway up his chest tightened. The class began to cheer. Javier looked down and noticed the disgusted expression of Raymond who had already returned to the floor. For some people that might be enough. Straining, he pulled himself up another notch than another. His cheeks reddened and his eyes began to water from the effort. He couldn't breathe, but that was nothing unusual. He pulled himself higher. Finally with one last heave he reached the top and touched the metal I-beam.

He looked around at the cheering class and saw the sea of white faces. This was where he belonged – above the trash who had everything given to them. After a few seconds in the ceiling, he lowered himself abruptly to the floor, practically falling. Triumph, no matter how small, was sweet.

The other children surrounded him patting him on the back with congratulations. He ignored them and whipped out his inhaler. Two quick puffs and his breath slowly returned. "That was amazing, Javier," Miss Jones said. "I don't think I've ever seen a student at this school reach the top of the rope climb here. I'm at a loss for words."

Raymond was not at a loss for words. "It's from all that practice climbing fences," he laughed. He had found a rag used to clean the cafeteria and tossed it to Javier. "Here you go, Wheezer. You can dry off your back now."

Javier took one more puff from his inhaler. Then he lunged at Raymond, tackling him in his anger. Miss Jones blew her whistle to break up the scuffle. With one more trip to the principal's office, Javier's victory turned into a hollow defeat. But it was better than accepting the taunts.

**Abby**

Tripping and stumbling over hidden vines, Abby bolted through the backwoods of Western Massachusetts. The hem of her nightgown dragged through the freshly fallen snow. She could not prevent her footfalls from leaving tracks. With luck, L'oncle would not spot them before the wind hid them with more snow. Like a deer escaping a hungry wolf, she raced recklessly through the night since escaping her prison – a barn her uncle had procured from their most recent victim. The lock was strong, but the wood was weak.

She paused resting against a tree. She must be miles from where she started and the hour was growing late … or early. She needed to find a place to stay for the day. The escape was not planned well, but this time it would be successful. One way or another she was going to be free of her uncle's tortured desires.

Abby continued through the woods at a slower pace scouring the area for a thicket or a cave – someplace to spend the daylight hours. Startled by an unnatural screeching sound in the night sky she was forced her to return to her breakneck pace. He was searching, but she was well covered by the trees. _Was there ever a time I could not run this fast?_

The woods opened into a clearing – not a clearing, but a fast moving stream. She ran right up to the edge and stumbled. _Stay clear of the living river_, she remembered, even if she didn't understand why. She considered a leap across, but the distance was too great, and L'oncle had not taught her how to fly. She glanced desperately in both directions for some sign of shelter or civilization. Grasping tightly to a tree, she leaned out over the water. She grew unsteady, collapsing into the brook with a loud splash. Dragged under by the rapid current, Abby lost consciousness.

A strong hand grasped her by the collar hauling her from the water. She sucked in an abundance of fresh air while expelling water from her lungs. It was an odd, instinctive sensation. She could survive without breathing, but she relished the awareness of air flowing through her body. Thankfully it was still dark. She could not have been submerged for long.

"You're okay! Praise the Lord. I thought you were gone." The young trapper removed his coat, a comfortable mix of various animal furs, and placed it around her shoulders. "You must be freezing. Let's warm you by the fire." The trapper examined her. "You are so young. How did you find yourself lost in these woods?" He peppered her with more unanswered questions. He lifted her and carried her in his arms.

Despite the freezing weather and being covered in water, Abby did not need or want the fire. Shelter was the critical need. "Avez-vous une tente? Abri?" _Do you have a tent? Shelter? _

The man did not seem to understand her language. He stared at her like she was an unusual wild animal – apropos under the circumstances. "What is your name?" He asked.

"Abigail. Parlez vous Francais?" She asked. He continued to stare at her strangely. She was beginning to learn the English language, but she understood more than she could speak. "A tent, s'il vous plaît."

Without his coat, he was shivering more than she was. "Abigail, that's a pretty name. My name is William. Pleased to make your acquaintance … out here in the middle of the woods. I have a tent, but we need to get you next to the fire."

"Non, a tente!" _No, a tent!_

Ignoring her demands, William settled her on the ground next to the fire. Abby recoiled away from the flame to the edge of the woods. This close, the fire aroused agonizing blisters on her skin. A small canvas tent stood on the opposite side of the clearing. Dead animal carcasses littered the snow next to the fire. Several of them were skinned. William brushed her hair out of her eyes. "I am sorry I have nothing to dry you with. Are you hungry?" She shook her head. He gave a relieved laugh. "I was working through the night. It is lucky that I heard you splashing in the water. How did you ever find yourself falling in the stream?" He continued to study Abby.

Unprepared for these questions, she chose silence. Instead, she skirted the edge of the camp sight and dove into the tent. A knife or a needle … that's what she needed. She found a sharp rock on the ground, sliced her thumb and sketched on the canvas walls. But it was too late. She already felt the force of Jean-Louis's appetites dragging her out of the tent. She obeyed.

William jumped when the winged creature signaled its presence with a demonic shriek – an injured beast dying in agony. It circled low over the clearing. Translucent flesh-covered wings glowed in the moonlight. The shadow of the wings spread over the entire clearing with the pass. William viewed the sky. "Another strange happening ... I've never seen anything like that out in these woods before," he said. His brows furrowed recalling local folk tales. He whispered, "Le loupgaroo?"

_The always pronounce it wrong. _Abby became resigned. Jean-Louis had found her again. The bat-like creature swooped down stirring the snow and nearly extinguishing the flame. One powerful beat of the wings knocked William to the ground.

Rising, propelled by fear and anger, William ran to his flintlock leaning against the tent. Already loaded, in preparation for wild animals, he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, poured gun powder from his tinderhorn into the pan, and pulled the hammer to the full cocked position. _The neck. Shoot the neck._

The creature circled around and attacked the clearing from another direction. William was steady as the fiend approached. He aimed his musket and pulled the trigger. The hammer struck the frissen, igniting the gun powder. At point blank range the musket shell pierced the creature's midsection. The creature's momentum carried him into William and knocked him to the ground. The beast circled skyward once again while William writhed in agony.

The monster landed on his feet within the clearing. Snow swirled in his fluttering wings. While Abby watched, the creature folded his wings into his body and transformed into her uncle – wholly unaffected by the musket shot. Abby looked into the scarred face of evil and knew that she was powerless in his presence. Dressed as a monk he wore a long black cassock and cowl.

Chuckling, he pulled a log out of the fire and held it near her face like a torch. "Abigail, moi chaton noir, why do you run? I will always find you. You should know that by now."

She stood her ground defiantly despite the painful blisters rising on her cheek. "Je suis désolé, l'oncle," Abby said. "Laissez-le tranquille. Il a essayé de m'aider." _Leave him alone. He tried to help me._ Sadly she added, "Il a été gentil avec moi." _He was kind to me. _

"Aren't they all?" the monk said with a boisterous cackle. "When will you learn? Kindness is a weakness not a virtue."

William, the unfortunate trapper stirred, "Get away from her!" he yelled at Jean-Louis. He rose from the ground and bravely approached the monk with fists upraised. "She's just a child."

With an evil smile, small red blemishes erupted amid the scars the priest's yellowed face. His eyes became brilliant blue with blood lust. His voice grew rougher, more profane. He held the burning log between himself and the trapper. "You are just a child," He said to William. "Abigail can be so much more." He turned to address Abby, "It is getting late, but I think we have time for a small meal … a young, healthy man. He smells delightful." He held the torch with both hands like a sledgehammer, raised it over his head, and bashed in William's head. William collapsed in the snow. The side of his head smoldered from the fiery impact.

With one arm holding the torch Jean Louis reached the other hand toward William's neck. He sliced a thin, bloody scratch with sharpened fingernails. Placing his fingernail to his lips, he licked off the blood, and shivered. "A meal fit for a living god." Once again he held the flame adjacent to Abby's face. "Won't you please take the first bite? I insist. Ensure you save some for me."

Abby tried to hold back, but with the smell of blood she began to lose self-mastery. She struggled against the overpowering instinct. With a deep, rough voice she said. "Non, s'il vous plaît, non." Her blisters throbbed from the flame. Scorching, blazing. Seized with a surging fit of tormina, her stomach craved satisfaction from the wounded trapper. She needed that blood. Her skin began to sweat profusely. Scars erupted on her face. _How can he ignore the flame?_ Droplets of sweat flowed from her forehead over her eyes. Her nostrils burned, not from the fire, but from rapture. She could not resist the urges. She was compelled. With one last breath she screamed, "Non!" and vomited onto the concrete floor.

She moaned in agony, her body wracked in pain. _Where am I?_ Covered in blankets and sweat she woke. Her body trembled in the dank, cavernous mill. She sat up weakly on the mattress and a wet towel fell from her forehead to the floor. Through the gloom she clung to the sound of an encouraging, gentle voice, "Abby? Are you okay?"

Owen sat down next to her on the mattress and cradled her tight in his arms. "How are you feeling, Moon Shadow? I was worried about you."

Abby remembered back to a week earlier, "The blood … the old man's blood. It was foul." Her head was pounding. She placed her hand to her forehead and let out a low wail. "It tasted awful. I knew it was foul. It made me ill."

"If you knew it was bad, why did you drink it?"

Shaking from the remnants of the fever, she gave Owen a disgusted glare, "I was hungry. How much control do you think I have?" She nestled into his chest allowing his comforting embrace.

"You're better now. Try to keep resting for tonight. You've been through some pretty rough dreams. Do you remember anything from them?"

Abby withdrew deeper into Owen's chest trying to forget the dreams. "My uncle," she whispered. Deep inside she knew these were more than dreams. While she slept, she felt the awakening of a remembrance. A distant memory she had not felt for nearly a hundred years. Even quieter, nearly breathless, she said, "Perhaps it was just the illness, but I feel him stirring."

"Should we do anything? Should we run?" Two weeks in Pueblo. They have had a few shorter stays.

"I can't run, but you can," she said. "He always finds me."

"It was just a nightmare; nothing to worry about. Try to sleep." Abby closed her eyes and rested comfortably in Owen's arms. For the rest of the night Owen slept peacefully next to her, comforted by her normal cold, clammy body.

**Jane Mosi**

Swept into office along with George Bush, Rufus was enjoying his victory. The celebration at Barleysmith's house was muted by the death of the man at the shelter. Hornswoggle called to concede defeat just a few hours earlier and the celebration began in earnest. Upstairs Rufus thanked his supporters in the name of Jesus the Lord. Downstairs, he thanked the goddess. It was an equal opportunity victory for a variety of faiths.

On the back porch, wrapped in a hand woven native-American style blanket, Jane sipped on a hot cinnamon tea while relishing in the brisk night air. She was pleased for her friend, but she could not be content in his victory. Selkie hadn't yet returned from her park retreat. Jane was never quite complete without her sister around, and this foray dragged on longer than she expected. If she didn't return within a few days, Jane may be compelled to go search for her. On one prior occasion she had invaded her sister's natural asylum. Resenting the intrusion, Selkie refused to speak with her for weeks. For now Jane will leave her sister to her solitude.

While thinking of Selkie, Jane's skin tingled, not from the cold weather, but from just a vexation. The evening aura felt wrong. It's a good thing Jane didn't believe in any of this nature worship nonsense, because the portents all pointed toward the approach of something evil. She lit another taper for her sister's safe return – another candle in hope. But she feared this may not be enough. Sometimes a candle is just a candle.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

A Lark at Pueblo State

November 9, 1988

**Owen**

A charge ran through Owen as he held Abby in a loose embrace. Moonlight edged around the cracks in the wood covered windows, causing the airborne dust to sparkle. He lightly ran his fingers through her long, silky hair. Her eyes held a longing, an anticipation of what may come. He leaned in and kissed the hair held in his fingers and inhaled her intoxicating, flowery scent. At the same time Abby's breath flowed down his neck, and he welcomed it. She held there for a moment.

_Now_, Owen thought, _we become one_. He braced for a piercing incision; her teeth tearing into his flesh. But it never came. Instead of a bite, she turned her face toward his. Her lips brushed his own.

"What is it you want, Abby?" he asked.

"Shhh," she whispered. Placing her fingers on his lips, the taste whetted his thirst. He studied her face, mesmerized by her bright blue, shimmering eyes. She replaced her finger with her mouth, this time more firmly. Her chilled breath washed over his tongue. Owen returned her affection with intensity. He cherished the cold tingle from her lips. She satisfied his carnal ache of hunger in a way that food could not.

With a new found confidence, he held onto her kiss. He ran his fingers down Abby's side and played with the seams of her shirt. He placed his fingers under the hem teasing the soft, bare skin of her waist. He slipped his hands further underneath and caressed the furrows of her ribs. Her hair crackled and danced with static from rubbing against the red wool blanket. Pausing he took in the beautiful vision. A cold, comforting chill sparked through his lips as he moved in to kiss the nape between Abby's bare neck and shoulder. She's delicate; she's sensual, she's passionate; she's …

"Aaaaah!" He forced himself fully awake. "She's only twelve," Owen moaned in a frustrated whisper. He shoved himself away from her childlike body on this mattress they shared and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Get out of my head," he mumbled with little malice. _Is she smiling?_

On the other side of nearly awake, Owen nurtured the enchanting memory. Snuggling under the warm blankets he tried to recapture that last remnant of sleep. It didn't work. He drifted back to the awareness of Abby's soft skin against his own. _Dammit, she's still twelve!_ He shut his eyes against encroaching light and allowed himself one more reflection of the comforting, unnatural dream. The illusion provided a momentary diversion from a reality that he sought to avoid.

Waking next to a slumbering Abby, Owen wondered what he was doing here. The rest of the world drifted past with a purpose while he remained trapped in the force of Abby's static presence. The minimal help he managed for Abby seemed to create more trouble. She was the sum total of his entire existence. _Would she even notice if I were gone?_

Owen tested Abby's forehead with the back of his hand. It felt cold and clammy – normal. At least the worry of her unrelenting illness had ended. He rose from the mattress and stumbled over the cold, concrete floor to complete his morning routine in the bathroom. A cold shower would be perfect right now. He settled for a cold 'bird bath' – using water splashed directly from the sink. He brushed his teeth and finished his other morning rituals.

On the street Owen watched from afar while other people fought through the daily efforts in their lives. Occasionally he scoffed at their meaningless struggles over clothes or homework or car trouble. Other times, he was jealous of the mundane. Today he would accept any of that for a bite to eat. Meandering through the city he found it once again crowded with vagrants of all shapes and sizes. Many were more pathetic than he, as though that provided any comfort. The area around the grocery store trash bin was clean, but the container itself was locked up tight with a new combination lock.

Another opportunity lost to him, but food was not his primary goal. Today he had planned to research possible cures for blood lust in the library. Overcast skies mirrored the darkness in his spirit.

The university was a good hour walk away from the abandoned steel mill. His appetite timekeeper let him know that he arrived on campus near lunchtime, at least for most people. Lined with trees and impressive buildings, the halcyon paths teemed with clusters of laughing, well-nourished students making their way to class. He stopped a couple of backpack toting girls and asked for directions. One ignored him while the other at least pointed in a general direction. He endured her sour look of disgust.

A few minutes later he sauntered up the marble pathway leading to a multistory, modern structure known as the Library and Research Center – the LARC. Owen strode through the double paned glass doors and the security turnstiles as though he belonged. Once inside he stopped in his tracks, bewildered by the variety of choices. "Wow!" Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the vast territory with shelf after shelf of books crowding the floor. So much more than he had expected. Several students bumped past him while rushing into the library.

Finding the main desk, Owen asked about a reference section. They pointed him to an entire wing filled with tax codes, government publications, dictionaries, and finally, encyclopedias. He sneezed in the cloud of dust created when he grabbed several volumes covering the letter 'V' and located a carol for private reading.

Within an hour Owen grew frustrated. After reading many entries about Dracula and the history of Vlad the Impaler, he was no closer to a solution for Abby. Stories and legends were plentiful, but cures were not even mentioned. Time wasted which could have been used for begging or scavenging. He resolved his continue on his research. Already at the library, he should finish the task.

Owen's gaze floated around the entrance area of the library search for the card catalog. There wasn't any. He abandoned the idea and worked up the courage to ask at the front desk. A gray haired, spectacled woman with a named tag that read 'Gloria' said, "We don't use card catalogs anymore. Try the dumb terminals." She waved in the direction of a bank of computer terminals across from her counter.

"Thanks." _I feel dumb enough_, Owen thought. _I think I need a few smart terminals._

Owen walked over to the terminals. A little lost, he glanced over somebody's shoulder to get some idea where to start. _Maybe the dumb terminal is a good name._ With that help he plugged the word 'vampire' into the subject search line and received nearly a thousand suggestions on the monochromatic green screen. _This isn't going to work._ He returned to the home screen and found that he could narrow the choice between 'fiction' or 'non-fiction'. _Which one means real and which one means fake? _He selected 'non-fiction' and hoped for the best. The choices were fewer than twenty. Better yet, most were held in the same area of the library – beginning with numbers 398.

He found the map for each floor drawn on placards and bolted to a stanchion. It directed him to the third floor of the stacks, past a group study area, and to the right. Dozens of students argued loudly around tables in large and small groups.

On the way he was tempted by an alcove containing vending machines and, more inviting, a partially filled trash can. He couldn't resist the isolated opportunity. He headed straight for the garbage.

With his head inside the can his senses were alerted to a salty, pungent scent. Sure enough, halfway through the trash he located the treasure – a half-empty vending size bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. He hated sour cream and onion, but in seconds the bag was empty. He tore it open and licked the residual salt. Heavenly. Owen closed his eyes, reflecting on the memory of the rare delight. He shuddered with pleasure.

The chips only served to whet his appetite. Pangs of hunger demanded more. The other side of that clear Plexiglas cover held sufficient food for days. He salivated at the candy bars, chips, and crackers just beyond his grasp. He pounded his head on the vending machine window. Unbreakable, it just reverberated. _S__o close!_

In the middle was a row of Doritos corn chips. He licked his lips, longing for the spicy cheese taste he remembered from his youth. He removed a precious quarter from his pocket and dropped it in the machine. Pushing the button 'B2', Owen waited as the metal curlicue advanced to dispense the measly package. When the mechanism stopped rotating, the corner of the bag caught under the metal, causing the bag to stop and dangle in place. Like a hesitant suicide jumper, it didn't want to fall. _For crying out loud!_ Owen thought. _I can't catch a break. _He grabbed the sides of the vending machine and shook it hard, trying to break the bag loose.

"Can I help you?" Owen turned to see a slight Hispanic girl with long sable brown hair cascading down her back and shoulders.

Suddenly aware of how this might appear to someone else, Owen reddened. He glanced at his reflection in the vending machine and barely recognized himself with his matted hair, scraggly beard and filthy clothing. He tried to cover for his transgressions. "No … no. I was just trying to get something from the machine." Owen tried to move around the student to escape the embarrassment.

To his surprise she grasped him gently on the elbow. She gazed directly into his eyes. "Don't worry. It's okay. Pick something out. My treat."

Disconcerted by the attention, Owen averted his attention. His mouth watered from the hunger. "Doritos," he mumbled lacking anything clever to say.

"Doritos. No problem. Is that your bag hanging up in the dispenser?" Owen nodded. She inserted a quarter into the money slot and pushed the button for a bag of chips. First one, then the second dispensed into the discharge tray. She pulled them out of the drop slot. "Here you go. What's your name?"

The question; he should have expected that one. Sweat began to form on the back of his neck while he tried to think of what to say. _Greg was right; the library is really warm. _"Kenny," Owen said, He could not help but wonder if by giving voice to that lie brought himself one step closer to evil. "You … you should have the second one."

"Hi, Kenny. I'm Gabriella." She reached out her hand and Owen shook it. "Keep them both." She handed both bags to him. "The shelter is closed right now. When it reopens you should stop by. It's not the best food, but there's plenty of it."

"Thank you. I might do that," Owen replied, staring at the green tile floor. The reopening shelter would lead to a return of the anonymous Dumpster diving lifestyle he had grown to appreciate.

"See you around," Gabriella said and she walked back to her study group. Owen was a little shaken by the encounter. It was almost like speaking with a real, live person. With one conversation he brought himself a little closer to the positive side of humanity. But with one falsehood …one lie … he threw away the chance of becoming something good. Evil was as near as those snacks on the other side of the Plexiglas, and he found himself craving it.

**Billy Scott **

"Here is a list of books. Why don't you see which ones you can find?" Gabriella handed Billy a slip of paper with about a dozen titles on it.

He had hoped this type of work ended with his high school graduation. Spending time at the library conducting research reeked of boredom and wasted time. Instead he found himself ensnared by the allure of Gabriella Agosto. Fascinated by her since that night he volunteered at the shelter, he now found himself helping her with an American History research paper.

If he played his cards right, he anticipated a little more intimate setting this weekend. Gabriella should have some free time with the shelter closed. Now he needed to focus on her research assignment – the causes of the French and Indian War. Billy could not imagine anything lamer. If he achieved a date at the end, then he would suffer through it.

"Aye, aye, Skipper," Billy gave a mock salute and searched through the library catalog system and then onto the bookshelves.

After a good half hour of exploration, he returned to the group study room delighted to have found three of the requested references. There were books and encyclopedias scattered over the table top with most of them opened to select pages. Gabriella copied notes onto index cards to organize her thoughts. "Only three?" Gabriella said looking disappointed. "I guess that's a start."

_Maybe I should have tried to find more than three_, Billy thought. "Do you want me to help you straighten up these books," he asked.

"No thanks. It looks disorganized, but I know where everything is." To prove it she reached across a few scattered books, picked up another open book. From this she started scrawling notes in large, looping cursive on note cards.

Billy heard something rustling over by the vending machines. Looking in that direction he noticed a boy searching through a garbage can in the snack food alcove. "What a 'tard," Billy whispered with a little chuckle to himself. When the boy found a snack, Billy let out a loud guffaw. "Look at him annihilate that bag of chips. It never stood a chance."

The utterance corralled Gabriella's attention, but not in a positive light. 'Aaah, poor guy." She said a little too sweetly for Billy's preference; like she was talking about a little dog. "He's just looking for something to eat. The loss of the shelter has made things difficult for a lot of people."

Gabriella surprised Billy when she pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. "I think it is a good time to stretch my legs. Maybe there is something I can do for him."

Bill grabbed onto her arm with a tight grip. "Don't go over there; he may have a knife or something. You can't trust them."

"Don't be stupid, Billy. He's not going to try anything here. There are too many people around." She peeled Billy's fingers off of her arm. "Most people are one paycheck away from destitution. Imagine what you would do if you found yourself without family or money." Gabriella strode confidently over to the homeless boy.

"I would get a job," Billy said as she walked away.

Billy watched carefully as Gabriella spoke to the youth, ready at a moment's notice to leap to her aid. Much to Billy's surprise, he wasn't needed. Gabriella spoke to the stranger. Then she inserted a coin in the machine and handed the boy two bags of snacks. They spoke for a few more moments. He finally relaxed when Gabriella returned to the study table. "You should be careful," He said. "Twenty years ago, there was a knifing in the stacks. Nobody knows what happened. Some say the murderer is still wandering the library searching for his next victim."

They watched the boy devour the two bags of Doritos, gazing into the second empty bag for more before tossing it into the garbage. "That's just an old wives tale. It sounds like truth because it is the type of thing that could happen. It's just like the story of the lost Indian tribe at Lake Pueblo."

"What story?"

"You never heard this story around the campfire at the Lake?" Gabriella looked stunned.

Billy shook his head. "We didn't go camping much."

Gabriella sat down at the desk and pulled out another reference. She spoke with elaborated hand motions to emphasize the tale. "I went with the youth group every year. The older kids liked to tell a scary story about a massacre of an Indian tribe which took place at the lake nearly a hundred years ago. The army swept the Western Territories to disarm and relocate an isolated tribe of the Jicarilla."

"Who are the Jicarilla?"

"They were a segment of the Apache in this area. Didn't you learn about them in school?"

"Uh ... sure, I remember them." But Billy could not remember the first thing about the Jicarilla tribe.

"Now be quiet and listen," Gabriella insisted. "A new shaman arrives and proclaims himself messiah. Over one late night ceremony this shaman prophesies that a tidal wave of soil would cover all of the blue coats and lead to plentiful game. It required complete and total sacrifice – the bloodshed of the entire tribe would lead them to a promised land.

"When the American army arrived they found the tribe slaughtered with the exception of one small child who relayed the story. His mother forced him to leave the ceremony in fear for his life. The child was near catatonic. His mother had saved him, but the failure of the prophecy was his fault. His blood was not shed. Somehow, the child was pleased with the failure.

"Drunk with the blood of the tribe, the shaman disappeared into the forest never to be seen again. The story claims that the shaman is still wandering the area around Lake Pueblo waiting to devour any wayward campers."

"That happened right here in Pueblo?" Billy asked. "I can't believe I never heard this story."

"It's just a senseless story to scare kids. Just like the murder in the stacks, it isn't true," Gabriella said. "Every so often somebody discovers remains at the lake which they claim is related to the massacre. Reporters react like crazy for a day or two until the furor dies down. Sometimes they interview the child."

"That kid is still alive? Maybe Kenny is the shaman. You should be careful."

"That kid celebrated his hundredth birthday this past summer. I think I'm safe from Kenny. I don't think he's the killer from the stacks any more than he's an ancient Indian shaman. We'll be fine. I know a hundred Kenny's. He doesn't think anyone is going to give him a chance. Usually he's right."

With his reaction, Billy thought he had blown his chances with Gabriella. "I would like to ask you out this weekend, but I'm beginning to think that you're attracted to the truly needy. I guess I'm too self-sufficient." Billy said.

"Don't sell yourself short. You're plenty needy." Gabriella gave him a gentle, malicious smile. "Well why don't you ask?" she said.

"Would you like to go to a movie this weekend?"

"Sure, I just need to finish this paper first. So go forth and find a few more references. This shouldn't take much longer." Billy gave another quick salute and wandered off into the massive library.

**Owen**

The Doritos were satisfying, but he thought he could have enjoyed a dozen bags without denting his appetite. Owen escaped this area without spending any more money. He drew too much attention to himself as it was. Gabriella was pretty. S_he probably would have liked Kenny_. He wondered what it would be like to get to know someone like Gabriella. _Someone who grows older_.

Ascending the three flights of stairs to the third floor, Owen found his way well into the depths of the stacks. Lighting was much more dismal here compared to the ground floor. The single, long fluorescent light between the metal bookshelves battled against the shadows.

He expected to find only a few books, but there must have been hundreds on all sorts of bizarre subjects like witchcraft and demons. He pulled out the slip of paper with specific numbers on them and found about a dozen books which might be helpful. He squirreled all of those books away to a carol and began to page through them.

In the quiet study area of the stacks, Owen lost himself in reading. Most of the books were novels disguised as fact, written for entertainment purposes – except boring as hell. About as useful as a stake in the chest. Others described treatments that Owen was familiar with – the use of holy water, a silver cross, and bells. None of these offered a cure. One of the more common suggestions included severing the blood line. _That could be difficult. I have no idea how to find the blood line_. His concentration faded with the dismal prose and his thoughts wandered.

**Aileen Sacco**

Aileen sat restlessly in the school's administrative office. The wait reminded her of her own school years positioned on a wobbly metal chair outside the principal's office. The office staff clicked away on their IBM Selectric typewriters and cheerfully handed out passes to the 'good' students. Sharpened pencil smell dominated the area. This visit had been delayed for weeks. Yesterday, she had worked a double shift at the ER with the multitude of minor complaints from the homeless shelter victims. Exhausted, she was not in a hurry for someone to judge her parenting skills.

"Mrs. Sacco you can come in now," Principal Beyer called from inside the open office door. "Please have a seat." Aileen took the seat in front of the large mahogany desk. The placard on the front of the desk said "Jessica Beyer". Yes, this revived some evil memories.

The principal shut the door behind Aileen and took the seat on the comfortable, commanding side of the desk. "Let's see we are here to talk about …." She scanned her desk for the appropriate file, "Javier." She pronounced the name an American "J" pronunciation. One strike against her already. "Thank you for finally taking the time to review his progress this year. I'm sorry we have not had the opportunity to meet before." Those last two comments were a little too pointed for Aileen. Daggers aimed at an uncaring, out of touch parent. _So it's going to be the parental responsibility lecture._ "He's been having a rough go of it this year."

Aileen nodded her head without comment. Principal Beyer initiated this conference. Any admission had to be dragged out of Aileen kicking and screaming, if need be. That was her strategy during her own school days, and it wasn't going to change now.

Principal Beyer gave an uncomfortable cough in response, "He's gotten into several fights over the past few weeks at school. I thought maybe we could discuss that."

"Feel free."

"Has there been any difficulty at home?" Principal Beyer asked pointedly.

"No."

The principal let out a long-winded sigh. Considering strategies to elicit the information she wanted. "Has he had any trouble with the police?"

"I'm sorry. He's a juvenile. I can't share any information about things like that," Aileen answered with her own juvenile smirk.

"Javier has been bragging to friends that he spent time in jail the other day."

"His father is a police officer who was rushed to the hospital. A friend picked up Javier for safe keeping until the crisis was over. That's all." She emphasized the "H" sound in her son's name to give the principal a lesson.

"Aah, well that makes sense. He seems to have a little bit of excess energy. Perhaps he should consider a sport." Principal Beyer added helpfully.

"You should look through your files a little more thoroughly." Aileen waved her finger casually over the principal's desk and decided she would school the principal. "Javier has asthma. I don't think a sport would be in his best interests."

"How about a club? Like the chess club." Aileen grimaced at that idea. "I'm only trying to help Mrs. Sacco. We both have Javier's welfare at heart."

"I don't believe Javier is cut from the same cloth as the children in the chess club."

"No, perhaps you are right. We don't have a lot of physical disagreements in the chess club. Those students can usually find a way to settle their differences amicably." _Ouch._ Then the principal aimed the pointed suggestion. The point she was working toward all along. "Perhaps you should consider enrolling Javier in another school. A school with children more like him."

If Aileen was not irritated before, this suggestion made her down right angry. "You mean with other Hispanic children?" The principal nodded. "What decade is this?" Aileen blasted. "Now it is not enough to be the wrong color. Javier just has the wrong tint! Separate but equal has been outlawed years ago. I expect you to fix any bigotry at your school." That should teach her.

Somewhere in the corner of her mind Aileen thought there might be truth to Beyer's suggestion, but she wasn't going to grant her the satisfaction. It was just not right to give in to petty prejudice. The tirade helped Aileen feel better after the tough few days at work.

The principal was a little flustered by the outburst. "Of course I am not suggesting any such thing, Mrs. Sacco. As I said, we both have Javier's welfare at heart. Please just speak with him about controlling his temper at school. You might want to consider some extracurricular activities." The principal folded Javier's paperwork away and tucked it under another folder. "That's all I have today. If you'll excuse me, I have another appointment."

With that dismissal, Principal Beyer walked her to the office door. The next mother waiting outside was a timid little mousy thing. The principal said, "Mrs. Decker?" The woman in the rickety metal seat nodded. "Thank you for coming to speak about Raymond."

Aileen was not fully satisfied with the confrontation. She found the musty air of the prejudice disturbing. To nobody in particular in the room, "To think there is a student with AIDS here and everybody is worried about a little difference in skin color."

While entering the principal's office, Mrs. Decker turned around in bewilderment. "There's a student with AIDS … at this school?"

Aileen could tell by the angry glare raising from the principal's face that revelation this was not a surprise. The fearful look on Mrs. Decker's face told Aileen she may have went too far in revealing this secret. The line between the patient-hospital privilege may have been stepped on, but she didn't give out any names. And parents should have the right to know that an infected student attended school with their children. That was how Aileen justified the slip, at least to herself.

**Owen**

Owen's head was plastered face down across the pages of one of the books. A few hours of rest each night coupled with the warm, stale air of the stacks had taken its toll. Owen had fallen asleep. His head ached and pounded. He felt his face; a sharp crease ran down from his ear to his chin marking the side of the book. _How long have I been sleeping? _He saw sunlight creeping through the high windows in the library wall.

He gathered the books in a pile in the carol. While organizing them Owen stumbled across a possible antidote. A potion needs to be made with a mixture of imperata, garlic, and nightshade - the belladonna and mandrake forms - combined in a mixing bowl and heated. _What the hell? It's a place to start. Might as well give it a try. _

Owen left the books in a stack on the carol and hurried down the stairs. He slowed with a wistful memory of the vending machine alcove and the tenderhearted girl from the group study room. Scattered over Gabriella's table were dozens of open books. Late afternoon and the room was empty. A map of North America in the 1750's caught his attention. Snooping into her studies was a relatively minor offense.

One of the encyclopedias was opened to a lithograph picture of a distinguished elderly priest. Stunned Owen recognized the caption "Abbé Jean-Louis Le Loutre_". Is this for real? Is this a picture of Abby's uncle? _He scanned the entry to read a little more.

"_**Though Le Loutre was trained for, and went to Acadia in order to be a missionary among the Indians of Acadia, one would have to ask whether in his work with the natives he better served God or his political masters in France. This much, we might observe: Le Loutre used the Indians. He contrived to use them on the one hand to murder the English, and on the other to terrify the Acadians. The plan which he [Le Loutre] pursued consistently from first to last with the Acadians was to threaten them with the vengeance of the savages if they submitted to the English, and to refuse the sacraments to all who would not obey his commands."**_

One British leader was gave a description of Le Loutre:

_**"Le Loutre was a man of boundless egotism, a violent spirit of domination, an intense hatred of the English, and a fanaticism that stopped at nothing. Towards the Acadians he was a despot ... he dragooned even the unwilling into aiding his schemes."***_

That sounded like an accurate description of one of the few people who could terrorize Abby. The entry to the encyclopedia closed with a mention of his imprisonment by the British until his release in 1763 followed by a quiet retirement until his death in Nantes, France in 1772.

Owen tore the page out of the encyclopedia, folded it and shoved it in his pocket. _This is great news! _The blood line was already severed. Some of the specifics didn't fit with Abby's story, but it occurred a long time ago. She may have confused some of the details. He closed the encyclopedia, hiding the missing page, and scampered excited out of the library front door.

The low, red sun blazed through the clearing clouds. Owen shivered against the biting wind contrasting against the inviting warmth of the library. _Next stop The Blazing Crescent._ Owen wondered how much of the potion ingredients he could purchase with less than six dollars in his pocket.

The tinkling bell sounded its welcome. He was becoming comfortable here – a quaint second home. Waiting on a customer, Jane gave a glancing smile of welcome in Owen's direction. She completed her transaction with the customer. Over a hundred dollars for candles, books, and trinkets. _Dang, I could do a lot with that money, _Owen thought.

The other customer left with a quick goodbye, and Jane turned to Owen, "Before you ask, Selkie hasn't returned, and I don't have any food for you. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"I need a few things today." Owen pulled the list out of his pocket and read, "imperata, garlic, and nightshade."

"What kind of nightshade? Nightshade could be almost anything. I could get you a potato. That's a nightshade." Jane strolled around the counter top to a shelf where she kept natural ingredients."

Owen studied his list trying to make out his own writing, "Mandrake and belladonna."

Jane turned and looked questioningly at Owen. "Belladonna is a poison and both could be abused as hallucinogens. Do you think the government would let me sell those roots?" Owen sagged in disappointment. He wasted all day in the libraryThis potion was his only hope to cure Pera.

Jane chuckled at his expression, "I'm just kidding you. Of course they let me sell them as 'natural remedies'. Belladonna is poisonous if you ingest too much, but it is also used in a number of cures. As far as hallucinogens, I have stronger stuff in the back if that is what you are interested in." She gave Owen a sly wink. He wasn't sure if he should take her seriously. "How much of each were you interested in getting." One of the walls in the store was lined floor to ceiling with plastic topped ingredient bins – each one with their own metal scoop or tongs.

"About a dollar's worth," Owen answered.

"A dollar?" Owen never seemed to stop amusing Jane. "Whoo, whoo. At last I can close this store and retire in luxury." Sarcasm notwithstanding, Jane pulled out a couple of long, red blades of grass, "blood grass" she mumbled to herself. "Do you mind if I put these all in one baggie?" She asked. Owen shook his head. Jane added a clove of garlic. When she dug into the next bin white powder wafted into the air. Jane breathed in a big, long sniff and shook her head to clear her thoughts. "I always enjoy sampling the merchandise," she said. Two teaspoons of white, desiccated powders added to the bag, "That should do it," she said as she handed the packet to Owen. "That will be four dollars, plus tax."

Owen took out five wrinkled one dollar bills wadded up in his pocket and reluctantly handed them over to Jane. She gave him back seventy cents in change. "Are you sure you want to buy this Owen? Wouldn't you rather buy food?"

"No, I want this. Thanks," Owen said. As he exited the store, Jane turned around the 'store closed' sign and locked the front door.

Owen made his way back to the abandoned steel mill. Inside he found the black cat guarding the boarded over windowsill. _I wonder what cat tastes like_. The cat meowed angrily in response, as though he could read Owen's mind. He looked pretty stringy. _Maybe I should just give him a name._ "From now on, you're Toto. I've been to Kansas, and Pueblo is nothing like it." He always had trouble with prey when he knew their name.

Aroused by the sudden noise in the mill Abby stirred awake, "Hello Owen," she said with a mesmerizing smile. The week-long rest had been good for her. She sat up on the mattress emitting a healthy glow. The angelic vision shoved away thoughts of Gabriella. Her simple, steadfast expression of welcome validated Owen's affection. Her child-like innocence deserved Owen's care.

"Good dusk," he said. "Do you know what you would like to do tonight?" He placed the plastic bag of ingredients on the floor with his belongings. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead with the memory of this morning's amorous dream infecting his thoughts. He noticed a boil forming near her ear."

"I think I remember you saying something about the zoo. I've never been to the zoo before," she said. "I think I'd like to go see the animals."

Owen tilted her chin to get a better look at her ear. "It looks like a sore is forming."

Abby quickly moved her hand to cover the spot. "I'm okay! It's nothing."

"Abby, it has only been a week since your last meal. You can't be hungry again," Owen said. His eyes betrayed his confidence. He knew he was wrong.

"The old man was sick. His blood was weak. It's not the same as someone younger ... someone healthier." Abby pulled Owen's hand off of her cheek and held it away forestalling the encroaching desire for more blood.

"I have some powders which might be able to cure your cravings. We could try a potion."

"No, not tonight," Abby said. "I don't need another spell of sickness. Let's just enjoy a healthy night while we can."

Owen worried over this girl that he loved and agonized over the child in his care. "The zoo it is then. We'll head out as soon as the sun sets." Owen had studied enough maps today that he thought he could work his way there.

**Jane Mosi**

Six o'clock and another long sales day ended. Jane closed and locked the front glass door against the darkening skies. She hated the time of year when the sun set before closing. She turned the sign around to read 'closed' and counted the receipts for the day.

It was a strong day for early November. Pumpkin cinnamon candles were still selling well and maize was beginning to take off. The four dollar sale late in the day unnerved her. Belladonna brought back some bad memories. _What could the boy want with that?_ That was not a product she sold very often. Fortunately, her inventory contained mostly flour filler. It was not enough to do any real harm, and she knew exactly how much that was.

She remembered testing it on their pet guinea pig. _Was that five years ago, already?_ The pet weighed about one and a half pounds. Her father didn't even suspect when he found the carcass. He was more interested in disposing of the body before Selkie found it, than what caused the death. He should have been more curious.

The store closed and the inventory counted, Jane decided to spend some of her earnings on some well earned fresh produce. She exited the store, purse hanging from her shoulder, and headed to the local food market. The clouds from the last few days were clearing with the stars shining through. The shadow of the new moon hung low in the sky. She did not expect to find Owen on her expedition, but she nearly stumbled into him and a waifish girl exiting the alley behind the old steel mill. The girl was wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt, but no footwear or jacket. They were headed in the opposite direction and hadn't seen Jane coming. She startled him when she asked, "Who's your friend, Owen?"

Caught off guard by the communication Owen answered, "My … uh… little sister, Abby." Jane wasn't buying this story. Aside from her clothes, she looked nothing like him.

"Pleased to meet you, Abby." With a smile, Jane held out her hand. The girl did not respond in kind. Her quiet stare intimidated Jane. _Is she growling at me?_

Jane covered the uncomfortable moment with a cough. She had seen too many bad things in her life to ignore another one. Owen seemed like a sweet kid, but this girl was awfully young. The thought of Owen and a troubled, young girl was distressing enough. Her eyes were sunken and dark, _could be bruising, but it isn't fresh_. She was definitely not well cared for. Owen had trouble supporting himself. Add belladonna to the unstable mix …. _She's small, the belladonna may become hallucinogenic, but it shouldn't be enough to make her sick_. "Is there anything I can do for you Abby? Do you need a place to stay?"

"I'm fine," Abby said in a deep throated snarl.

Jane placed her hand on Abby's shoulder trying to reassure her. "Seriously, let me help you." The in a whisper so quiet, Jane mouthed the words, "Is he hurting you?"

Abby whipped her arm around to knock Jane's hand off her shoulder. She was strong. "No, I'm fine!"

Owen put his arm around Abby's to turn her away from Jane. With a bashful smile he said, "She's okay, Jane. Really she is. She is getting over a pretty bad illness. Thanks, but we need to get going."

"Í can get you some shoes. Where are you staying? I'll bring them by." The little girl just stared. _Maybe Owen wanted the belladonna for himself_. She dismissed the thought as ridiculous.

Jane watched the two walk off in the direction of the Fourth Street Bridge. Abby's bare feet tread lightly on the concrete sidewalk. Something wasn't completely right with that pair. They had just come from the alley behind the steel mill. Smoke rose from the stack a week ago. She was going to keep an eye on them.

**History of Nova Scotia; The French Moses and English Devil" BluPete Publications .


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

They Have Banks?

November 9, 1988

**Owen**

"I don't like her Owen," Abby said. She shook free of Owen's patronizing grip on her shoulder. "Maybe you should take care of her tonight. You were right, I am growing hungry."

Annoyed whenever his daytime activities intersected with his nighttime, he hated answering questions about Abby. Jane scurried off in another direction. She paused and glanced down the alley in the direction of the steel mill.

"No. We'll leave Pueblo before I let that happen. It's bad enough when I don't know the quarry." Over the years he had developed a number of euphemisms to avoid calling them food or a victim or a meal. It made the subject easier to talk about, more palatable. "Let's enjoy our walk to the zoo."

They started off toward the Fourth Street Bridge. _It would make my day for Blaise and Greg to pop out like a couple of trolls and introduce themselves to Abby_. Fortunately, Blaise and Greg weren't at home.

Abby stopped short of the bridge, reacting strongly to some perceived barrier. She looked ashen over some imaginary threat. "I didn't know the zoo was across the river."

"It's no big deal, Abby. The bridge is strong."

"O … okay," she said.

Owen held her hand in comforting support. The bridge crossed over seven widths of railroad tracks before they merged into one at the trainyard. She strolled to the center of the span. Rumble of rushing water plowed around the bridge stanchions just in front of them. Shaking, she took one more cautious, hesitant step. After a few more steps, she said "I think I still might be a little weak. Maybe you could help me across." She mumbled the last words.

Owen supported Abby as she collapsed into his side. He could not recall one time when she crossed a bridge awake and aware. When they arrived in Pueblo, they were in a taxi. Abby slept through the occasion, only to wake when the taxi stopped. Other times she had been in her trunk.

He lifted her, and carried her like a child. Her neck rested in the bend of his arm. One arm lay around his shoulder, the other dangled at her side. Her expression was peaceful, like she was sleeping. Owen studied her face embracing the quiet moment. Like a child in his care, he could think of nothing but her well-being. His sore rib ached, but he savored the quiet intimacy. Her skin against his. He wondered whether he should turn back or continue across.

On the other side of the bridge, Abby stirred awake. Surprised to find herself within someone's arms, she wrestled from his grasp. With her strength, she shoved hard against Owen's side, and they both fell to the ground in a tumble. Owen rolled over on his side with a groan, trying to ameliorate the shooting pain. "What was that about?" he asked.

Abby tried to placate Owen with "I'm sorry. I thought I was falling." She helped him to his feet with surprising strength.

"If you're not feeling well, maybe we should turn back." Owen was unsure where that came from after being nearly comatose, but they continued on their way.

"No, it's okay."

The opposite side of the bridge opened before them like a new city. Owen had only spent a few moments on the southwest side of the river; once on his first day in Pueblo searching for a place to stay and the second time when he grabbed the holy water from the church during the gushing rain shower. If he remembered the map correctly, the zoo should be a straight shot down Fourth Street, north on Prairie Avenue and across the aptly named Goodnight. It was quite a long walk, so they needed to keep moving.

The street lights glowed in the darkening twilight as the new moon only just kept pace. Barely a few blocks on the west side of the river, just past Corona Street, Abby stopped and sniffed at the bright clear air. She looked in the direction of a narrow backstreet, barely wider than a path between two closed businesses on the street.

"What is it?" Owen asked. His eyes focused on a lanky, short-haired mutt who was sniffing in the area.

"Nothing," Abby replied.

"I think there is something," Owen replied. "I can just make it out. I think I see a shoe."

"It's nothing," Abby said trying to pull Owen away from the opening. "He's already dead."

Owen slipped his arm out of Abby's grip. "Who's dead?" He headed in-between the buildings. "There is someone in here. You were right, Abby."

"We don't need him, Owen." She spoke with a throaty snarl. "His blood is dry."

Owen had learned a few things about cities since he arrived here – cities contained more alleys than he ever imagined, and many of them were occupied. "But he might be helpful for me."

After hearing Abby's pronouncement, he approached the old man with confidence in the darkened alley; at least he assumed it was another old man. The body leaned against the brick wall in a seated position with head tilted forward like he was sleeping. Gloved hands were folded peacefully in his lap with his legs stretched out straight. He wore a black fedora with a ragged gray ribbon wrapped above the brim. Owen pushed the man with one finger in the shoulder to test for vitality. The man slid for a few inches along the wall and his hat fell off. Owen lusted for the warmth of his gray tweed overcoat.

Even in the dim light Owen noticed the sunken cheeks covered by a long, shaggy beard. Abby came up behind Owen - her misty breath visible in the chilly evening air. "See I told you he was dead," she growled. "Let's go."

Owen ignored her urging. "I live off the waste of others," he said thankful for Blaise's advice. "I can use a hat and a pair of gloves," he said walking around the corpse and placing the hat on his head. He hardly noticed the smell. A few sizes too large, but almost instantly, his head became warmer. He pulled the gloves off the stiff fingers and set them on the ground next to the body. Then he tried to get his coat off, but his arms were rigid. "Can you help me with this?"

Abby advanced tentatively to the old man next to Owen. Her nose wrinkled in irritation. "Ugh ... It's gross!"

"Please Abby. This will only take a minute."

Without another complaint, she silently grappled with the old man's arm and twisted. With a loud crack, the shoulder and elbow joints gave way. Still uncomfortable, she backed away from the body and wiped her hands furiously on her pants. Owen pushed the body away from the wall and unwrapped the coat from around him. The dangling arm felt like a broken GI Joe toy, but he gave it little thought. His attention was focused on the overcoat. The silk inner lining flowed over his freezing arms like the river over a smooth rock. Warmth cascaded with a crescendo through his body. He placed his hands in the pockets and found a bonus – a twenty dollar bill. Things were looking up.

He eyed the man's shoes, but they were a few sizes too large; not worth the trouble. He rifled quickly through the man's pockets, finding nothing else of interest. He picked up the gloves from the ground and donned them, as well. "Let's go," he said to Abby and began to depart the alley.

With one final contemplation Abby said, "What a waste ... all that blood … gone forever." Then she turned and followed Owen outside the alley.

The streets were nearly empty. Once outside the alley, a sole white bus with big red letters on the side passed by. "What's that?" Abby asked with a deep, inhaling breath.

"It's from the Red Cross," Owen answered. "A bloodmobile."

"A bloodmobile?" she chuckled. "That sounds like my kind of bus. Where do you think it's headed?"

"To the blood bank. They have them in the bigger cities."

Abby looked at Owen with questioning stunned bewilderment. "They have banks?" She glared at Owen with a scowl that seemed to say, "Why haven't you told me this before?" Then, she added, "I think I'm going to make a withdrawal."

She bolted after the white van with bare feet slapping against the concrete. Owen tried to keep pace, but Abby quickly outdistanced him. _She's doing pretty well for someone who nearly collapsed on the bridge a short while ago._

**Tony Sacco**

A symphony of squeaking sneakers and thudding basketballs boiled his blood in a way that desk work never could. On the ropes Firehouse Twelve called their last of their timeout for the game. It wouldn't be enough. The Maulers were up 44-20. Their lead was too immense.

The five of them huddled with the rest of his Mauler teammates of the police force. Sweat vapor rose out of the center of the testosterone cluster. A snarling German shepherd on their blue shirts suggested their team's ferocity. Roberto Prindle, their team captain, provided the encouragement needed to finish the game.

"We can't let up now. We have them on the ropes. Keep the pressure. Don't let them get second chance rebounds." Distracted by the action on court two, Tony was only half paying attention to the captain. The city intramural schedule had the police station facing the team from the blood bank next week – the Vampires. They were playing a lot better than you would expect for a group of lab rats.

Jesse Corrle was working out fine as a new point guard this season. "Just keep feeding the ball to Tony," Jesse suggested. "They're playing about ten feet off of him on the offensive end. I think he has scored more than the entire firehouse team."

Tony was almost embarrassed at how good a game he was having. He had twenty-four points to the Dalmatian's twenty. Every shot was uncontested, and every shot was dropping. Too easy. A great first game for the season, but he was hoping to mix it up a little more.

Roberto continued, "Let's slow it down a little. Hold the ball on the offensive end and finish with good shots. Don't even give them the chance." He put his right hand in the center of the circle and everyone added theirs to the pile. With a loud 'hoo-ha' the circle broke and they headed back onto the court.

Roberto pulled Tony aside on the way back to their positions. "I'm not sure if you heard the news, but I just got engaged." Tony nodded his congratulations. "I'd like to invite you and your wife to dinner in the next couple of weeks so that you can get to know her."

"That would be great. I would like that. I'll let my social coordinator know and she'll set something up."

Back on the court, Tony took they guarded against the inbound shot. The referee blew the whistle, and the Firehouse Twelve players, with their Dalmatian emblazoned jerseys, inbounded the ball from the sideline and the action started anew.

The playing from the opposing team dribbled against Roberto while Tony guarded his man. His opponent seemed more interested in Tony than he did in getting free to receive a pass. Roberto's man sent a return pass to Firehouse Twelve's guard. He set up on the point and signaled a play. Several passes back and forth on the outside before the ball wound up back in the point guard's hand at the top of the key. He took a long shot, off balance and the ball bounced off the rim.

Tony's opponent had position for the rebound. He casually reached for the ball, overconfident with his post. This was finally Tony's chance for some competition mano y mano. He lunged forward to try to reach the ball at the top of his arc. Hands outstretched, he could not anticipate his opponent's elbow slamming back into his face. Every one of the players from each court stopped when they heard the collisional thud.

Just like in cartoons, Tony saw stars. Bright lights circled around his face. The referee blew his whistle in timeout. Tony knew the foul was his, but it didn't matter. He laughed as the blood dripped from his nose onto the floor. "That was sensational!" He said to nobody in particular.

Then he noticed all nine of the other players were enjoying the altercation much less than he was. His opponent looked horrified at the pool forming underneath Tony. The rest were all standing stunned with stupefied alarm. Jesse Corrle's jaw hung open in shock. They all knew. Even his opponents knew. "Aw dammit! It's just a little blood," Tony protested. But he knew it wasn't _just_ a little blood; not anymore.

**Owen**

Owen was out of breath and a stitch tore up his side. Each deep breath of cold air burned through his lungs. His ribs throbbed in agony. A new ache, a blister, developed on his heel from rubbing against his loose-fitting sneakers.

Owen had raced through more than twenty blocks hoping to locate Abby, the tail of his new overcoat flying behind. Along back streets and main streets with factories, businesses, and homes Owen ran ignoring his surroundings. He was not certain how he found his way, but he could sense Abby ahead of him. He followed that awareness, hoping he could find his way back. _If only I had some bread crumbs_.

Finally he arrived at the Transpacific Plasma Center. The white bus sat out front, heat still radiating from its hood. Owen stopped to catch his breath. He waved, attempting an easy familiarity, at a finely dressed gentleman walking his dog. After waiting patiently for him to pass by, Owen succumbed to the temptation to glance upwards. On top of the blood center he was relieved to notice a pair of sunken green eyes staring at him bounded by tangled, tawny brown hair. Behind the building, he located the fire escape. "Help me up, Abby," he said in a loud whisper. Within a few moments the iron ladder descended to the ground and Owen scampered up. Abby pulled him to the roof top with his good arm.

"Hi, Abby. Thanks for finding me," Owen said with a rueful smile.

"Shhh," Abby whispered. She motioned him over the edge of the back roof ledge building. The gravel of the flat roof crunched under his feet. He lied down next to her. Cold dampness from a rooftop puddle wicked through his jeans. "There are two of them inside with the blood. Hopefully, they will leave soon and we can get the supplies." She whispered these observations with a quiet, conspiratorial voice like she was getting ready to raid the neighbor kid's fort.

"So we are thieves now?" Owen wondered.

"We live off the waste of others, right? Unless you would rather kill somebody for it," Abby said.

The wind swirled away the moments making Owen thankful for his new, warm coat. The single glowing, yellow street lamp flickered its cadence. Owen studied Abby's eager expression remembering the unrelenting, impossible desire from this morning's dream. She conveyed the self-concerned enthusiasm of a twelve year-old's narrow-minded needs – so different from the friendly altruism showed by the pretty Hispanic girl at the library. "You're right. It's better than killing somebody."

With one last brilliant flare, the street lamp buzzed loudly, and then burned out – enveloping them in the darkness of the new moon.

The back door to the blood bank opened shining light on the small parking lot. Two people, wearing thick blue jackets which swished as they walked, emerged from the building. Owen heard a click extinguishing the light and the noise of the shutting door. "Hurry up. Maybe we can catch the end of the game at the Y," one said to the other. The car doors opened, the engine started, and they drove off.

Once again the streets were quiet.

"Let's go," Abby ordered. Then she floated down from the roof onto the parking lot. Owen took the long way around via the fire escape meeting her behind the locked back door.

Abby pointed out the no trespassing sign on the wall. "You're on your own, I guess. Unless you're planning to spend the night here." Owen shook his head and took a deep breath in preparation.

With a rock in her hand she smashed the handicapped-style handle to the back door. Owen reached his gloved fingers into the newly created hole and pulled the door gently open. The false subterfuge was lost with the loud, piercing shriek of the burglar alarm. "Dammit," he whispered startled by the noise. He nearly shit in his underwear.

Owen pulled the door open and hustled into the building. The room was lighted in the pale glow of a single tiny, nightlight. The walls were lined with large stainless steel doors. He opened the first one and inside were blessed rows of plastic bags filled with the red, life giving fluid. Light from the cooler shined across the room revealing a bevy of slate lab counter tops and stainless steel sinks. Laboratory equipment hummed in their quiet sample analysis.

Quickly scanning the area, Owen found what he was searching for – a trashcan. He poured the contents on the floor and removed the ever-useful garbage bag. He tossed each of the several dozen pint-sized vessels of blood into the bag. Proceeding to the next cooler, Owen discovered an even greater treasure – an unopened lunch bag containing a multi-layered ham sandwich and a Twinkie.

With nearly a hundred pints of blood and the lunch, Owen hauled the pillage across the floor to the door. The alarm continued to screech its warning. The garbage bag held firm despite the weight. Outside Abby waited impatiently. Owen heard approaching sirens in the distance. Not sure how long he took inside; Owen implored Abby to "take the blood. I'll meet you back at the steel mill."

Abby agreed and grabbed hold of the neck of the bag with her expanding clawed foot. The neck of her shirt tore as two huge wings burst out of her neck. The wings flapped and Abby began to fly low over the nearby buildings, fading quickly from view.

Owen watched as Abby disappeared over the rooftops. The sirens stirred him from his wonder. He strolled away from the scene as though he had little care in the world. The hat and coat helped him enjoy the night for one of the first time since he tossed his bloody jacket in the furnace. He picked up the pace when he realized just how far he had to travel. His sense of Abby helped to blaze his trail.

Weaving in and out of city blocks Owen noticed details that he missed before. Despite the night, this part of the city faded with a decay greater than that of the area around the steel mill. Lights were off in most homes, but lawns were overgrown and fences hung in disrepair. He heard several dogs growl with his passing. _I think I remember this house. I remember those dogs, too_. He must be getting close to the railroad bridge. A few blocks later he observed the blinking red and yellow lights of the bridge and over the river he spotted the quiet, empty railroad yard. Above the skyline the silent smokestack of the mill beckoned. _Almost home._

Crossing the bridge Owen was startled by the lost perception of Abby for a moment. She was beneath him. He circled back, and found her squatting under the abutment sucking on a pint of blood. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Why haven't you made it back to the mill?"

"I was hungry," she said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. She held up the nozzle of the bag she was drinking. "Look, it comes with a straw."

"Let's get back. It's not long before dawn," Owen glanced across the river at the spot where she stayed her first day in Pueblo. "Unless you want to stay under the bridge again."

She jumped to her feet and tossed the empty medical bag to the ground amidst a dozen others. "Let's get going. I'm no troll."

Owen picked up the empty bags and threw them in the garbage bag. "We can't leave these here. Someone might use them to track us." He hefted the heavy bag over his shoulder. It weighed a ton.

The pair hurried back to the top of the bridge and began to cross. Once again, as they crossed the water line, Abby began to fade. Owen dropped the garbage bag and caught her by the arm before she could fall over the edge. "What's wrong Abby?" he asked worried for her safety.

"It's nothing," she mumbled. But it was more than nothing. Something was definitely wrong with her. Leaving the bag on the west side of the river, Owen cradled her in his arms and carried her across the bridge.

"Put me down," she said on the other side of the river before they even got to the street. "Could you get the blood? I'll meet you back at the steel factory." Without waiting for an answer she scampered off in the direction of the foundry.

The remainder of the nighttime stroll was less than pleasant with the burden of the garbage bag on his shoulder. Each pint of blood weighed over a pound, and Owen hauled nearly a hundred in a slow-going trudge up the street.

Finally, arriving at the mill door, Owen pried it opened. Eagerly waiting just inside the door, Abby unburdened his load. He wedged the sledgehammer under the exit door push bar and followed Abby up the steps. Exhausted from the effort, Owen almost forgot about the lunch bag he carried all the way from the bridge. He could have stopped to enjoy the meal and lighten his load.

At the center of the mill bats frisked in the sky lights and Toto toyed with a mouse. Abby enjoyed another pint of blood on the old, rotten mattress. She looked the happiest Owen had seen her in years. Her color was full and her smile brightened the entire mill. With clear skin, the signs of her illness had evaporated. Owen sniffed a faint fragrance of roses.

Owen had not been the only one starving these years. Suffering was not just about the fear of death, but about the endless ache of privation. For this one night, he was thankful. She could satisfy her needs without the accompaniment of someone's misfortune.

He picked up an empty soup can and filled it with cold water from the bathroom faucet. He joined her feast on the mattress. The sandwich and he became one. For the coup de grace, Owen grasped the plastic wrapper around the Twinkie and, in one quick motion, he pulled it off. He licked the cream off the end of the dessert and savored his first bite. For tonight, Owen was content.

Abby devoured far too many of the containers of blood, but Owen couldn't be bothered to care. When completed, she settled down on the mattress and pulled the blanket over her head. Owen cleaned up the mess of plastic bags and tossed them into the furnace. Exposed to the elements outside, the insulated furnace made a good spot to store the remaining blood. Owen wrapped up the garbage bag and lowered it gently into the cold furnace.

Fulfilled, he curled next to Abby on the mattress. They never did make it to the zoo, but perhaps another night. The page with the story of Jean-Louis LeLoutre crinkled in his pocket. He had forgotten about that.

As he fell asleep Owen could not help but wonder about the blood. It didn't seem quite right. _It's never free. Blood always comes with a cost. _ He honestly did not expect tonight to be the exception. But he hated it whenever his worst fears came true.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Gateway to a New Reality

**November 9 - 18, 1988**

**Selkie**

Selkie crouched over her sweltering campfire adding logs and stirring the coals even higher. The smoked curled slowly upward in the crisp afternoon air at her sacred cedar grove in the woods surrounding Lake Pueblo. Selkie beseeched the blessed mother Gaea who rode the smoke trail to the heavens. This time she hoped the goddess would answer her cry.

The warmth of the fire brought a comforting sense of normal to Selkie's visit to the state park which, so far, had been decidedly non-normal. Frustrating to no end. She had spent over a week scouring the Faerie country without finding her husband. This had never happened to her before. The land of the Faerie was a large place, but with the help of Finvarra's friends she could usually find him - usually in a Faerie pub where he held the lowest tab. Not that difficult, really.

Upon her recent arrival in the Fey, she could not even find any one of their friends. In fact she could not find anyone at all. The land of the Faerie was suddenly barren.

To build strength for her next attempt, Selkie prepared the camp for her meal – a supper of warm beans, pine nuts, and chicory leaves. For a drink she boiled water for a warm cherry tea. She scarfed down the mix in seconds. While she was eating, a fawn wandered by, stopped and studied Selkie's behavior. It sniffed at the unusual blends of spices. The fawn seemed oblivious to the corruption of the Faerie land, right on the other side of the gateway. Selkie greeted it with a joyful "hello". The mother bounced behind her and both ran off. Bats gathered insects above the treeline.

Clean up time. She walked down to the lake, crunching the freshly fallen brown dry leaves. She rinsed her utensils in the water. Then she removed her own clothes and waded in the water for her personal ritual cleansing. Lake water stung with refreshing coolness. Soft slimy material from the lake bed caressed her feet and oozed between her toes. She tried not to consider that the bottom was formed of a blend of all natural substances such as plant waste and fish feces.

After her quick bath, Selkie brought her clothes and utensils back to the fire. She had no towels with her. Air drying in the nude seemed the best approach. The fire kept her warm while the cold breeze evaporated the water.

Following this respite, she had an urgent need to express herself in art. She removed her small sketchpad and oil pencils from her green nylon tent and went to work on her art. Slowly the picture began to emerge. Partway through the drawing, the evening chill began to take hold and she donned her denim jeans and sweat shirt. As it took shape, Selkie shaded the image with gray. His hair and beard were russet brown, but his dark soul clouded the image. Her only real variation was the peach hue for the skin and the haunting green for his eyes.

The picture still wasn't right. Something else was missing. She studied it for a few minutes, but she could not decide what it was. Upon closing her eyes, the image came to life, but Selkie didn't have the best paint. She took out her Bowie hunting knife, designed specifically for the army, and cut a small hole in her index finger. From this hole, she was able add just enough paint to bloody Owen's fingernails. Just the right touch.

With the sketch complete, Selkie returned her drawing pad to her tent and withdrew the bag containing a desiccated white powder from her knapsack. Jane always swore that Selkie had a problem, but this was not a narcotic. It was a concentration aid for her ascension to the land of the Faerie. Peyote had been used this way since the dawn of man in America. As natural as natural can be.

Selkie sprinkled some of the powder over the fire. The fire crackled and spit. She leaned in close for a deep breath of the acrid smoke. Woozy intoxication began to take hold. She added some of the powder to the remaining cherry tea and swallowed the tepid mixture. Collapsing next to the fire, Selkie scraped her cheek on the floor of the desert sands. She had returned to the land of the Faerie.

Clambering to her feet she scanned the rolling desert hills in all directions. Carrying only a full water bottle, she wore Khaki shorts, white tank top and rubber-soled sandals. In all directions waves of heat rippled upward from the ground. Within minutes, Selkie's nose was sneezing against the dust clinging to the dry desert air.

_Which way to go? _To the North and East she saw signs of rugged desert life – lizards, saguaro cacti, and rugged desert shrubs. The South was the rolling lifeless dunes of the deep desert. West was rocky and mountainous. She had tried North and East before and found nothing. A black dove landed on her shoulder and suggested "West". So the western path through the cliffs it was. She nicknamed the dove "Toto".

She wandered past a family of ravens tussling over the remains of a small body in a brown suit and matching hat. _It stinks!_ Like popcorn in a popper, several of the ravens spilled across each other, fighting for one small scrap of meat. _He's one of the Fenoderee of the Manx,_ a_ brownie; poor thing. _The black dove motioned Selkie toward the Southwest. She left the carcass as fodder for the ravens.

Hours she trekked, tracking with the sun's motion across the sky. Perspiration boiled from her bare arms. She drained the last drop of water from her water bottle. The ground turned rockier, but in the distance she saw a rising forest. At last the land for which she was searching.

The path led to a forest much darker than she remembered. Creepers covered the openings between the dying trees and the underbrush. "Do you think we'll find lions and tigers and bears in there, Toto?" she joked. It would complete the myth.

A cedar tree rose in front of her. Three vultures sat clawing to three branches; heads bobbed up and down in cadence with their squawking. Selkie notice a man splayed, strapped face first against the trunk. His naked body, covered in boils, was burnt raw by the blazing sun. His sores were black with rot, while maggots crawled between the openings, enjoying the freedom of his flesh. His arms were tied with vines to branches and his legs wrapped around the trunk. The disfigured skin, so distorted by the suffering, blended with the bark of the tree. Alarmed at the site of this man, Selkie reached up tenderly to brush the worms off of his skin. She almost did not even recognize her husband. "Finvarra, what happened? Who has done this to you?" She asked.

Finvarra emitted only a mournful cry for an answer. Selkie reached around the trunk to loosen the vines. One of the vultures pecked at her fingers, forestalling her response. Toto crawled over Finvarra's back and fed on the worms. One by one, he swallowed the small, white segmented infections. Each time they were replaced by another.

After several hours of receiving unintelligible responses, Selkie laid down next to the tree to maintain a steadfast watch over her husband. For seven days and nights he suffered, strapped tight to the tree, answering Selkie's questions with only wails. Finvarra shivered through the freezing nights and burned through the sweltering days. She had little hope. Cedar smells were masked by his malodorous decaying flesh. She could only worry about the torturous suffering that this once joyful spirit endured.

Finally, on the seventh day, after night and day blended into one, Finvarra began to speak. "I curse the day that I had been born. I curse the night my mother and father first laid loving eyes on each other. I would be better off having been stillborn than suffer this agony. Why do I continue to live?"

Selkie stood up and brushed some more of the worms from his skin. "Who did this to you? Why do you suffer?"

"I am thirsty. Please bring me something to drink," Finvarra said with a rasping, throaty voice.

Selkie glanced at her long empty water bottle, guilty for having drunk it all. "I'm sorry, my love. I have nothing for you. I'll try to find something."

"You shouldn't be here. It's too dangerous. There is a terrible evil in the land." Finvarra paused and let out another moan. "Oberon has forsaken me. I don't understand why. I have done nothing wrong."

Before Selkie had the chance to go anywhere, the first vulture spoke up, "My friend, if I may be so bold. You have been kind to us in the past. I don't wish you to suffer from my opinion, but you must have done something wrong. You must be guilty of some evil. Why else would you be made to languish in pain? There is danger in your anger, you foolish faerie. It will not appease your accuser. Happy is the one reproved by Oberon. Seek out Oberon and thank him for your agony. Acquiesce and admit your wrongdoing. You will be happier for it."

This argument made little sense to Selkie. "Rufus, why do you claim such things?"

Finvarra seemed less than satisfied. "You are no friend of mine," he said. "My anger stems from my anguish. Why won't he just let me die? If I have committed some vile crime, tell me what it is. Show me the proof. I will accept my punishment gladly. But I have done nothing. Oberon is in the wrong. I cannot sleep. My dreams are consumed by visions of nightmares."

The second vulture spoke up. "I am not so concerned with your feelings, my friend. Oberon is just. He would not have punished you for nothing. Heed what others have learned. You cannot stand against the mighty justice of Oberon. Repent and seek his forgiveness."

Selkie could not stand by while hearing these criticisms from Finvarra's friends. "Mother, how dare you?" She complained. "Why don't you help him? Make an appeal to Oberon. Explain his suffering."

"No Selkie," Finvarra said, "they are right. Who can measure up against Oberon? We are all imperfect. We all deserve to be punished. But he destroys the blameless along with the wicked. I wish he would explain why I must suffer so much more than others." Finvarra cried into the tree. Thick tears of blood ran down the bark, like sap. "Why do you punish me like a mortal man?" He screamed. "Please tell me why. Or else allow me to descend to the land of darkness. … I am so thirsty."

"Is there a stream nearby?" Selkie asked Toto, the dove. He shook his head.

With a squawk, the third vulture spoke up. "You others are idiots," he said to nobody in particular. "Finvarra is not being punished enough. Oberon is merciful. Finvarra's greatest transgression is questioning Oberon's wisdom. He can see into your heart. He understands your wickedness. You should thank him for his mercy. Instead you blame him for your agony. Repent and you will abide in brightness and hope."

"Elizabeth, you are the wicked one for even thinking you can understand Oberon's mind," Selkie said.

Finvarra answered, "Oberon may be wise and just, but you are imbeciles. You aren't helping me, you are mocking me. I know I am in the right. Burn down this tree and new leaves will sprout where it is fallen. But let me wither in the sands and nothing will grow back. I long for death. This torment tears at me like a river eats away at a canyon's wall. Mountains fall with time, but I remain in agony. I am so ungodly thirsty."

Selkie became fearful for Finvarra's sanity. "Please don't say such things," she said. "I'll appeal to Oberon myself." Selkie jumped up on the tree roots grasping hold of one of the branches. She strained her neck to touch her lips to those of her once beautiful husband.

"You need to leave, Selkie. A shadow has fallen across the land. You will not find what you are searching for at Oberon's court. Please help me die. Just one drink and let me die. End this suffering."

From her perch on the tree, Selkie noticed a sharp, slate rock loose on the ground. She jumped down and raced over to it. Returning to the cedar tree made the vultures nervous. They pecked at her fingers, but she held tight to the rock. Selkie knew they would not allow her to cut the bonds fastening Finvarra to the tree. She dragged the sharp edge of the slate down her forearm cutting a long gash. Dropping the rock, she grabbed onto the tree branch and lifted her now bleeding arm above Finvarra's outstretched mouth.

Finvarra drank his fill of Selkie's blood. "You should not have done that," he said. "But thank you for helping me. You are the only one to show me true kindness." He leaned as far as he could toward Selkie. She returned his kiss - tart, bitter taste from her blood fueled his passion. The comforts of his lips were worth the sacrifice.

Still holding onto the tree branch, she pulled away from the kiss. Finvarra whispered to her, "I can help you find what you are searching for. I'm the only one." The force of his words knocked her from the tree. She fell to the ground with a loud thump. The distance was greater than she expected. She fell for what seemed like hours. When she slammed into the ground she lost consciousness.

Selkie had no idea how long she lay there. She came to in the woods outside of Lake Pueblo covered in blood over her arms and face. She felt herself being lifted from the ground. "Rufus, how did you find me?"

"Your sister asked to me to search for you," Rufus answered. "You're bleeding. Let's get you some help."

Selkie nestled comfortably within the strong arms raising her from the ground. "I think I know how to help him," she said.

"Help who?" Rufus asked as he carried her away from the campsite.

"Owen," Selkie answered. The cool air of Pueblo felt good against her skin after the long stay in the desert. She fell asleep in his arms.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Coward's Prayer

November 10, 1988

**Owen**

Owen's eyes cracked open to the murky late morning glow permeating through the steel mill. The morning after the theft of the blood supplies, Owen dragged himself off of the otherwise empty mattress. Several empty medical bags lay scattered around Abby sleeping in her bin. She had been busy through the night; abandoning the mattress and moving to the bin to hide her pilfering activities. Partially covered by blankets, the collective debris reminded Owen of candy wrappers buried in the snow. _At least she didn't waste a hot meal_.

With a fresh twenty dollar bill burning a hole in his pocket, Owen thought he might search for a productive way to spend it – some food or clothing would be nice. He headed off to the Safeway Supermarket - for the first time entertaining the idea of using the front entrance.

Just inside, Owen was startled by the number of people and the selection of goods. From the door he spied shelves of glistening, dripping vegetables. Salivating at the tangled & twisted cacophony of aromas from a slew of mouth-watering vegetables, he never thought he would enjoy the smell of fresh broccoli, but there it was.

A banner advertised a free Thanksgiving turkey for any total purchase over $100. Shoppers pushed their carts past him at a frenetic pace. On the other side of the exit doors cash registers clamored to the sound of full grocery carts emptying into brown paper bags. Some customers needed two carts to contain their plunder. _They must be rich!_

Owen was so amazed by the sheer flurry of activity that he nearly fled the supermarket in terror. All doubts vanished when the stack of newspapers next to the front door forced his action – the lead headline on the front Page of the Pueblo Sentinel declared "Vandals Trash the Local Blood Bank!"

The headline was accompanied by a grainy black and white photograph. Whiskers peeked out from behind the brim of his hat as he dumped trash on the floor. _They had a security camera!_ The Fedora was unmistakable in the grainy photograph. Owen's tweed overcoat was difficult to recognize, but the total package of hat, coat, and beard fingered him clear as day. A reward was offered for any information leading to an arrest and conviction. _Damn!_ He fled from the grocery store hoping nobody matched the photo to his hat.

Once out front, he tore the hat from his head he shoved it into a garbage can. An idle police cruiser sat empty in the parking lot. Owen scurried around back behind the grocery store near the recently locked Dumpster. He took off the heavy overcoat and turned it inside out. The wool texture irritated his skin, and the brown silk lining looked bizarre, but it distinguished him from the coat in the newspaper photo.

Above the fence behind the supermarket, Owen caught a glimpse of smoke tracing into the sky. He walked through the opening to the overgrown vacant lot and saw his two friends. A pot of soup boiled over the open flame. Greg waved him over to sit next to the fire. Since his first visit, they added a third cinder block to supplement their furnishings. Owen sat down on the empty block, confident with his new found, daytime companions. He was discomfited by the only two words of Blaise's greeting, "Nice coat."

"Thanks." was all Owen could think to say. Steam carried a tantalizing, meaty smell from the pot. The smoke alone could stave off his hunger. The corpulent odor combined with the burning wood to create a homey setting. _Maybe I should change the subject_. "What's for lunch?"

Greg pulled out a ladle from the pot and poured some soup into a mug. Owen salivated at the chunks of meat and noodles spilling over the edge. Two white ragged circles on the side of the blue mug suggested a long forgotten, broken handle. Greg handed the mug to Owen with a spoon.

"What's in it?" Owen asked. He spooned the tender meat into his mouth. Prepared just right with salt and a little with flecks of herbs, Owen attacked the meal.

"It's better that you don't know," Blaise answered. "Want some seasoning?" He handed Owen a salt and pepper shakers.

Needing no more salt, Owen grabbed the pepper and added some to his soup. "I'm curious. It tastes good." He placed the pepper shaker on the ground next to his foot.

Blaise picked it up and returned to the salt. "Never divorce the salt and pepper," he said.

Greg ladled some soup into his thermos. "It's my own recipe. Do you really like it?" Owen nodded. He took another spoonful to prove it. Greg continued, "The truth is, I'm not really sure what is in this mixture. It has a wide variety of animal meats – raccoon, squirrel, dog, and a few I couldn't even recognize. You've probably seen my meat collection." Owen shook his head. "I keep it scattered along the roadsides of Pueblo." He pointed to the pot. "You might even find a little pigeon in there." He pointed to the pot.

Owen winced at the thought. "You use road kill?"

"Yep … man food. My philosophy has always been 'It's good meat if it comes with a little gravel.' The meat is fresher in the winter time and tenderized perfectly by the traffic." He pointed his spoon in Owen's direction. "I find that boiling the meat removes most of the tread marks. It's topped off with a packet of Ramen noodles. You should try them. You can buy four packets for a dollar at the Safeway. We stock up on coupon day."

The idea was disgusting. But, to be honest, Owen didn't really care where the meat came from. The meal smelled great and tasted better. He made sure to tell Greg and asked for seconds.

They engaged in casual conversation about the weather and local events like the shelter closing. It was enjoyable until Blaise turned the conversation to more pointed questions, "What are you running from, Owen?"

"I'm not running from anything," Owen said.

"Everybody is running from something," Greg said.

"Well I'm not. I'm just trying to stay alive." If this were 'Truth or Consequences' he could give as good as he got. "What about you? What are you running from?"

Greg gave a little sigh, "That is a good question." He said setting his bowl down on the ground, "I guess I'm running from myself."

"From yourself? Aren't you some sort of war veteran? Everybody seems to support them." Owen thought of the more successful beggars he saw on the streets. "I know they get the most donations."

"That wasn't always the case," Greg said. Blaise was studying the conversation, trying to gauge Owen's reaction. Owen wasn't giving anything away. He was genuinely curious. Greg continued, "Coming back from 'Nam we weren't really welcomed. Not at all. Our only refuge was the VFW lodge with other veterans. Even there, you weren't welcome, if you had a dishonorable discharge."

The Vietnam War lay shrouded in the recent past that Owen knew little about. He didn't know why we fought and he could not understand hatred toward the returning veterans. "I think my father had some sort of deferral. But what happened to you? Doesn't everybody get an honorable discharge?"

Greg laughed at the comment. "Not everybody. It might be hard to believe, but I had a little bit of a temper back in the day."

That was not really hard to believe. "It can't be against the rules to have a temper. I think just about everybody would be discharged."

"To be honest, it was more than just a little bit of a temper. I got into a few pretty nasty fights. It turns out the army doesn't have much of a sense of humor. They really frown on striking an officer. So, after a few years in the brig, here I am."

"What about your family? Wouldn't they help you out?"

"My father didn't speak to me when I came back. As for my wife and son, they are out there somewhere." He waved arm in a wide sweeping motion. Greg sighed with despondence. "With no income and no prospects, they left me for greener pastures." His expression looked a little dejected with the declaration. Owen could understand his sense of abandonment. The idea of his family bailing at a time when he needed them most made a bad situation worse.

Blaise and Greg had a natural way about them. They made Owen comfortable in their presence. There was something comforting in hearing another person's struggles. Their stories were a slice of life that Owen missed. "What about you, Blaise, what is your story?"

Finished with his meal Blaise placed his empty mug on the ground. "Mine is much simpler than Greg's. I'm a coward."

"I can't believe that," Owen said.

"It's true," Blaise said. "My first three months in Vietnam were boring as hell. Mosquitoes were my arch nemesis. I thought it was like a big picnic – sports, drugs, and a little bit of required chores. Then we went on patrol. We marched in a column perhaps a hundred people long. In a few days we were just wandering through the jungle without a care in the world." As Blaise continued the story, Owen was transported to the Vietnamese wilderness. Each word took him further from Pueblo and into a private hell. Owen felt drenching weariness of the humidity along with the sore feet. "I was about your age. The sergeant had given up on trying to keep us quiet. We were too young and green. After weeks in the jungle, a mortar exploded. It couldn't have been more than forty feet away."

Blaise held his arms out in front of him as though he was reliving the carnage. His eyes widened in fear. His voice became quick and shallow. His body trembled. The horrors of war were buried just beneath the surface with his war friends. "I felt like I was in a fishbowl." The words tumbled out in stutters and gasps. "My ears were ringing. I was spattered with blood and chunks of flesh … somebody else's flesh. Body parts lay all around me – a leg, hands still holding a rifle. A helmet was wedged into the tree right next to me. A second mortar shell exploded. I started running and I haven't stopped since." Greg responded at the end of story with a wicked little laugh that lightened the mood. Owen chuckled along with Greg.

"How is that funny?" Blaise asked.

"It's the way you said it," Owen answered, "like you ran all the way home over the ocean. Why hasn't your family helped you out?"

"I did keep running. I ran all the way to Laos, then Thailand, and then caught a freighter to Taiwan. From there I worked on another ship all the way to San Francisco." Blaise took a few calming breaths trying to quiet the memories. "As for my family, I figure they are busy attending MIA rallies and collecting checks from the government. As far as I know, I'm still in the military. Greg may have been dishonorably discharged, but I've never been discharged. There isn't anywhere for a coward to call home, either."

"I don't think you are a coward," Owen offered helpfully.

"Well, I'm too afraid to go home," Blaise said.

There was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation. Both Greg and Blaise eyed Owen. "Now it's your turn, sport. What's your story?" Greg asked.

Owen scratched at his collar. The inside-out wool coat was growing pretty itchy. This was a story he couldn't share. One thing was certain – he wasn't telling the truth. Vagueness might be the best strategy. "There is nothing really. My father left and my mother couldn't take care of me. I have nowhere to stay. I'm only trying to stay alive."

"If you're not going to tell us about your past, maybe you can tell us about the coat," Greg said. He paused for effect. "Why are you wearing it inside-out?"

Owen's legs grew numb from the cold, hard cinder block beneath him. The chill seeped from the concrete through his overcoat. Owen shifted in his seat to help the circulation. "I just like it this way."

Blaise added, "I think I recognize that coat. It belonged to Pete Dawson. He died in an alley last night."

"So?" Owen said with surging irritation. "He was dead when I took the coat. You told me to live off the waste of others. I was cold."

"His shoulder was completely ripped out of his socket. That takes a lot of strength." Owen shuddered from the memory of last night. Remembering the loud crack of the shoulder joint– like ice on a frozen pond overburdened by a heavy weight. A cold tingle crawled through Owen. He rubbed his own shoulder. It hurt him just thinking about it.

Owen coughed when a small gust of wind blew the smoke in his direction. He responded quietly with a dry throat, "I'm a lot stronger than you think I am," Owen said. "I was cold and desperate. I needed the coat."

"His gloves were missing, too." Blaise pointed in the direction of Owen's gloves.

Owen almost forgot about the gloves. The snapping sound the fingers made – each one of them. The pops barely registered at the time. "My hands were cold, too," he whispered.

"I'll bet they were." Greg said. "The coat could have been anybody's, but there is no mistaking the hat. … Where's the hat, Owen?"

Annoyed by the tack of the interrogation, Owen barked out a response. "I didn't see a hat," he lied – glad he tossed it away quickly. He took a few moments to settle himself. "I guess I'm a little bit of a coward, too." He stood up and made to leave, "Thank you for the food. It's been interesting. I don't know anything about Pete Dawson. I was just cold." Owen wished he didn't even know his name.

"I know the look of fear, Owen. I was only eighteen in that jungle. In some ways I never left," Blaise said. "We're not here to judge you Owen, but to help you."

Greg added, "We've all done things we're not proud of. I think you were damn lucky to stumble on his body before I did. I would've taken the coat no questions asked." Hearing Greg give voice to these thoughts assuaged Owen's fears. Greg continued, "Pete had been staying at the shelter. He couldn't survive on the street. It was only a matter of days. His time was up."

Owen nodded an irritated farewell to end the conversation. As he turned away, he felt like he escaped with a warning – a verbal shot across the bow. And he was just growing comfortable in this town. He was going to have to be more careful from here on. He hadn't even noticed the security camera. Then Blaise mumbled almost casually, "What the hell do you think he needs with all of that blood?" The question hung in the air like a leaf falling from a tree, waiting to die. Ignoring the question, Owen continued to walk away. But he heard it. _ It was nice, but now I may have to avoid these guys, too._

**Tony Sacco**

Back on patrol, the inquest was over, Tony tooled around the streets of Pueblo in freedom. Nobody from the police department was found to be at fault during the Halloween night incident at Club Fusion. This meant that nobody from the police force had to live with the guilt or disgrace of the evening - nobody except Tony. Even with his return to the duty roster, Tony grappled with the stain on his dignity.

It was not like he committed any horrible offense, but Tony suffered through the scathing glares, the whispered conversations, the prejudicial judgment. That is what he was thinking he found himself parked in the Club Fusion parking lot. Standing outside his cruiser, the club looked markedly different during the day. Without the glare and glitter of the flashing lights, Club Fusion looked old and run down. It mirrored Tony's spirit.

Still early, there were hours before the night club was scheduled to open for the evening. Tony was surprised when somebody opened the club door and waved him in. Tony slammed his car door and followed the greeter into the building.

The inside was illuminated by the natural light angling through the front glass windows. The plate windows were covered with a dark sheen that allowed some light to intrude, but prevented people outside from gazing in. The multi-colored stage lights and dance floor lights hung from the ceiling hinting at the possibilities for late night frivolity. The man who had waved him through the door pulled out a bar stool. "Have a seat," he said. "What's your poison?"

Tony barely recognized Charlie Langston without his Boy George costume. Today his clothes were much more pedestrian. Blue jeans and a green Sears's work shirt held their own against Charlie's expanding waistline. The shirt was unbuttoned down to the navel displaying an understated gold necklace and smooth chest. His balding hair slicked back to a narrow witches peak.

Tony answered, "I have a little too much poison right now. I'll just have a club soda. I'm on duty." Tony took a seat at the bar.

"C'mon lighten up." Tony shook his head. Charlie walked around the bar and dispensed the soda from the automated hose.

Tony changed his mind. _Who was going to challenge me? Nobody is even speaking with me._ "All right I'll have a beer. Do you have Coors on tap?"

Charlie smiled and tossed out the plastic cup of soda water. He filled two mugs with beer and handed one to Tony. Frost form on the outside of the mug as the head dribbled over the side. Tony took a long swig leaving a temporary foam mustache which he slurped off. _That tasted sinful!_

Charlie walked around the side of the bar and sat on the stool next too Tony. Instead of talking directly to each other, they spoke to the images in the wall length mirror behind the bar. Tony's black eye and bruised nose stood out. "You and Aileen – who would have thought?" Charlie shook his head. "I always figured you for the prom queen type."

"What can I say?" Tony answered recalling his high school years. "She was very persuasive. I guess I always had a thing for the bad girls."

They each took a few casual sips from their drinks. Finally, Charlie broke the awkward quiet. "I'm sorry about what happened here on Halloween," Charlie offered. "How is Aileen taking it?"

"She's doing pretty well," Tony answered. Then, with disgust, he continued, "You believe it the other day she… my own wife…" Tony paused wondering how much to share. The frustration was unbearable. "My own wife asked me to wear a condom. It's like she doesn't even trust me!"

Charlie took a sip from his mug savoring the beer. "There's nothing quite like it," he agreed, sighing. "Bare skin against your lover. All that latex just gets in the way."

Tony snickered. "This conversation is getting a little strange for me." They sat on the bar stools for a few minutes in quiet enjoying their drinks. The silence gave time for Tony's anger to congeal. "The thing is … everybody treats me like some sort of leper." He fought back the well of frustration. "I didn't do anything to deserve this. I didn't do anything wrong."

"You did nothing? You've never done anything wrong?"

"Well sure, but Halloween I was just doing my job. I have never done anything really weird like … uh..." _being queer_, he was going to say. Then he realized where he was sitting – inside the confines of the local gay establishment. He decided to avoid that example. "Like drugs or anything like that. Every day I think I could get shot. But I never expect this." Tony pounded his fist on the bar. "I'm a police officer, for crying out loud! People are supposed to admire me. They shouldn't be repulsed by me. And for what? Because a few drops of blood flew my way?"

"Do you remember back in high school?" Charlie asked. "I was amazed by you." Tony was surprised by this revelation. "I didn't even understand it. I thought I just admired you. You were so cool. I wanted to be just like you."

"You are not going to profess undying love to me, are you?" Tony asked a little flattered.

Charlie shook his head with a laugh. "Nope, that ship has sailed," he said with exaggerated sympathy. "The talentless hack that I was I joined the football team out of admiration for you. It's your fault that I rode the bench for three years."

"I don't know what to say. … Sorry?" Tony said with a shrug.

Charlie waved him off. "I have no complaints. I didn't get much out of the football, but you were darn cute in the shower."

Grimacing from the thought Tony said, "I think I was happier not knowing that little tidbit of information. Sometimes ignorance is bliss." He finished off his beer with a healthy chug.

"Sometimes," Charlie answered. He bounced keys on the top of the bar, pondering some important thought for a few seconds. Without finishing his beer Charlie stood up and moved away from the bar. "Let's go for a drive." He picked up his brown leather bomber jacket and pulled it over his arms.

"Where to?"

"It's a secret. Let's go," Charlie insisted heading out of the front door.

Tony followed him out. His eyes blinked in the bright sunlight after the darkened bar. "Which car?"

"Let's take yours. I've never ridden in a patrol car before," he winked at Tony, "at least not in the front seat."

They drove into the city with Charlie providing directions. Every few blocks Charlie reminisced about some memory that occurred at that location – an old store that was recently closed, a fight, or a famous auto accident. Tony found the conversation oddly comforting. Charlie wasn't judging him or deriding him. He just acted casual, almost normal. The radio crackled with the normal chatter of patrol. Tony checked in with dispatch. Without any major problems, he was free to continue on the journey.

They pulled up in front of his old school – Black Kettle Elementary School. It was a massive two story concrete structure closed years earlier due to asbestos contamination. The windows on the bottom floor were boarded up and spray-painted with graffiti. "What are we doing here? Nobody uses this anymore." Tony wondered. He parked the cruiser around back, surprised to see a few other cars in the lot.

"It's a warehouse of sorts," Charlie answered.

"A warehouse? Really? What kind?" Tony asked wondering what sort of adventure Charlie was taking him on. They got out of the car and strolled around to the back entrance of the building.

"This is a hospice – a warehouse for dying people."

Tony paused outside the back door. _Ugh, it's a hospital. _ Not exactly the sort of adventure Tony was hoping for. _At least it is not some sort of gay festival. "_I was just in the hospital a few weeks ago. I don't think I need to see another one."

Charlie pushed him through the front door. "It's not the same."

_Let's get this over with._ They entered through the front door which was spray-painted with "Abandon all hope, ye who enter". The entrance way echoed with an empty silence. Security was limited to a clipboard dangling from the front wall. Once signed in, they jogged up the central staircase. Room 203, Miss White's third grade classroom, was a lot starker than Tony remembered. The old radiator rattled in the corner, breathing out a wisp of steam.

An ancient oxygen pump struggled to force air into the lungs of a withered patient who reclined peacefully in the hospital bed. Tony hated to disturb him. The patient's goiter was swollen and purple sores covered his cheek and forehead. An oscilloscope recorded the heartbeats like in a Korean War era war film. Morphine dripped into the IV line. Charlie sat in a seat next to the patient and brushed his damp hair off his brow. "Hi, Hugo," he whispered.

Tony stood behind Charlie, embarrassed by the intimacy. "What are we doing here, Charlie?" he asked.

Hugo opened his blood shot eyes and looked in Charlie's direction. The breathing tube prevented any further signs of recognition.

"Tony, meet Hugo – my partner in every sense of the word." Tony nodded his acquaintance, uncertain if Hugo was even aware of his presence. Water streamed down Hugo's cheeks. "A decade ago was a wild time. I was just figuring out who I was when I met Hugo." Charlie dabbed the tears with a tissue. "He wanted to open up this club with little old me. I jumped at the chance."

"The first few years were a blast. I had so much fun. But then customers started getting sick in weird ways … strange pneumonias, infections that refused to clear and unusual cancers – symptoms doctors almost never saw. After a few years, the medical community gave it a name – 'GRID'; gay-related immune deficiency'." Charlie gave a disgusted laugh. "Great name, don't you think? A disease - and someone to blame – all contained within the name."

Tony shook his head. "Why did you bring me here? Is it to show me what I have to look forward to?"

"No, this is what I have to look forward to." Charlie held tightly onto the patient's hand. "This isn't really Hugo. This is a shell. Hugo was a wonderful person. I'm sorry you never met him." Regardless of what Charlie said, Tony could not help but picture himself in the hospital bed connected to the equipment.

The he considered Charlie. Charlie still looked healthy, but the signs were there. Eyes were gray and sunken; his skin was artificially tan, but wrinkly. He set Hugo's hand down gently and stood up from the chair. Charlie cranked up the feed rate of his pain medicine. "I'm not looking for sympathy, but I do have one more patient for you to meet." Tony followed Charlie out of the room.

Across the hall, in room 204, Mrs. Johnson's old Social Studies classroom, a blond boy lay passive in his bed. This patient was emaciated, perhaps Javier's age or a little older. He, too, was hooked up to a hodgepodge of salvaged hospital equipment. An older woman sat in the chair reading a novel with the limited light in the room. Charlie knocked on the door frame, "Mrs. Alvaro, do you mind if we come in?"

The woman shook her head. "Hi, Charlie. How's Hugo doing?" she asked. Her eyes were watery and blood shot. Tony realized that it was not a novel she was reading, but the Bible. What passages could possibly provide comfort for the young boy in the bed?

"As well as can be expected. How about Dunstan? How is he coming along?" Dunstan opened his eyes and smiled at the company. A trace of red outlined each of his teeth. Tony had trouble focusing on the disfigured boy; he looked like a circus sideshow. Blood wept from the corner of his eye. His arms held outside his bed sheets were stained with dark purple bruises. The left arm was connected to an IV. The opposite elbow was a purplish mass, swollen larger than grapefruit.

A voice from the back corner of the room startled Tony. "He's in God's hands now." Tony turned and was startled to see Reverend Fletcher approaching him from the blind corner inside the door. With his hand held out, the reverend said, "I'm Reverend Fletcher," as if Tony didn't know that, "and you are?"

Tony introduced himself to the street preacher. He addressed Charlie with "What's he doing here?" Tony had trouble forgiving the preacher's role in the events on Halloween. The preacher was in the back egging on the angry crowd.

"He runs the hospice," Charlie said.

"Are you kiddin'? I thought he hated you guys."

The minister answered the question for him. "I hate the immoral, damnable bane that has descended upon us. The Lord has rained down this poison because of our sin." The preacher held his Bible in one hand, pointing accusingly at Tony, "Sin begets evil and we all suffer for it … but I have a calling to care for the sick. Their suffering becomes my suffering. The sin that created this devastation is evil, and I despise it with all of my worthless being. Dunstan is an innocent bystander caught by shrapnel."

The minister walked behind the bed in which the boy lay. With gloved hands, he brushed his bangs out of the bleeding eyes. Dunstan had contracted intestinal cancer from his illness. Dunstan lived with constant pain, but he smiled through the pain with his bloody lips.

"You were wondering why I brought you here," Charlie said. Tony just continued to stare, amazed at this boy. He wished he could suffer with as much grace. "Back at Club Fusion you complained that you didn't do anything to deserve this." Tony acknowledged him with a nod. "What did Hugo ever do to deserve this? … What about Dunstan? … A hemophiliac ... a blood transfusion caused his illness. Do you think he did anything to deserve this agony?"

"No," Tony added. It had been years since Tony had prayed, but it seemed apt here. There was not much else he could think to do. He mumbled a short, silent prayer for Dunstan … and for Hugo.

"Dunstan is the bravest person I know. He lives every day with the hope that it won't be his last one." Charlie put his hand on Tony's shoulder. "When it is my time, I dream that I will have half as much courage. But I know better – I am no Dunstan." Charlie turned to address Tony. "When we were younger, I thought you were amazing. Now I think you are a coward. You're a corpse acting like you are already dead. Live a little … enjoy your family. It's more than I have."

The criticism stung, but Dunstan's example it hit home. Painfully upsetting, Tony knew Charlie was right. The thought of passing this infection onto Aileen hurt the most. Not just careless, he was selfish.

Charlie stayed at the hospice rather than return to the club. Tony drove off in silence. Witnessing others who were suffering did not provide comfort. In some ways, it led to more despair. The idea that this suffering was in store for him was nearly unbearable. He could not understand why he was exposed. He was just doing his job. While patrolling he stopped at the drug store. Sometimes courage can be purchased in tiny packets of latex.

**Owen**

Owen tried to calm himself down the contentious visit with Blaise and Greg. The anger left a bad taste in his mouth. He collected his composure. There was plenty of daylight remaining and he still held onto the twenty dollar bill. Abby needed some new clothes to replace her torn shirt from last night. He decided to browse the Goodwill store while he had some time.

Racks and racks of old faded clothes lined the floor. Marks and holes, which speckled the worn and decrepit clothing, were nearly hidden by the store's weak lighting. Owen wandered through the aisles selecting a few items. His pauperism fit among the few shoppers. Neither Owen nor Abby had much sense of style, but even he ruled out the polyester. Amazed at the extent of the wear on some of the donated clothes, Owen wondered who would donate this garbage. At less than a dollar per item, it was the best he could afford. Surprised to find used underwear, he selected a few pairs for Abby.

He brought the outfits up to the cash register for checkout. Next to the counter were a few food items, including some oriental noodles. Four packs for a dollar, just as Greg promised.

The freckled, blonde youth behind the counter asked him, "Will that be all for you today?" Ringing up the purchase while Owen studied the oriental noodle section, the youth surprised Owen with, "Hey, I recognize you. You were at the library yesterday." The jerk's ingratiating smile bled superiority. "Gabriella helped you with the vending machine."

Owen looked closely at the boy, "I remember you, too," he said. He did, but not from the library. Owen's anger smoldered just beneath the surface - three toughs who beat him and stole his money. The last time he saw him, at the loading dock back entrance to the Goodwill store, Owen didn't recognize him. His hair was dark and wet. Now the ginger-blonde looked just as he did in that alley behind the Asian restaurant. Left beaten, lying in the ground, - the memory of his money ripped from his pockets. This jerk was one of them. "Billy, right?" Owen said, recalling the rainy encounter the other day.

He nodded. "Would you like anything else?" Billy asked.

Owen had nearly forgotten the oriental noodles. He grabbed twenty packs of various flavors. That should help tide him over for a few weeks. He even got change back from his twenty. He also began to plan for a way to vent that anger that has been building. He could stake out the alley behind the Asian restaurant.

As dusk approached, Owen arrived back at the steel mill, he found Abby already up and about. Plastic medical bags were scattered all around the bin. The western wall of the giant mill was covered in new, dark red symbols between each of the boarded up windows. Symbols Owen didn't recognize.

Allowing his eyes to acclimatize to the darkness, he observed several distinguishable large drawings. Some of them took up the entire height of the wall. There was one with three intertwined leaves surrounded by a circle; one of a triangle with large swirls extending from each apex, and a grouping of wavy lines and dots rising from the floor. As Owen stared at that last image, he thought it looked like a tree. It was like guessing at cloud shapes.

In the farther corner, Abby painted a new symbol on the wall with her fingers – a large letter "Y" with a third middle line in the center like a pitchfork. The ink she was using was the dark red color of blood. "Whatcha doin', Abby?" Owen wondered.

Abby ignored his approach, continuing to shade in the pitchfork. As Owen got closer, he noticed that she was painting with her own blood oozing from her thumb while drinking from a medical bag held in her other hand. He reached up and pulled her hand away from her drawing. "What are you doing, Abby?"

Surprised by the sudden attention, Abby jumped away. A relieved look crossed her face when she realized it was Owen. "Umm, nothing really," Abby replied. She jerked her arm away and continued sketching on the wall. She was rubbing her fingers raw on the concrete.

"Abby I can help you, if you want. Just tell me what you are painting."

"You can't help me. You don't know the runes." Abby finished the final sketch. "These are for our protection." This close Owen noticed that her normally pale skin was acquiring a bright, reddish tint – almost like she had been out in the sun too long.

"Abby, how much of this blood have you been drinking?" Owen asked – a little too parental for his own taste.

"I don't know. I haven't been counting. I can't seem to get enough of it." Abby stared at the bag in her hand, apparently surprised to find it there. "It's the taste. When I drink, it tastes fine, but there is a bitter chemical aftertaste. The only way to cover it is to drink more."

Owen thought the blood might have preservatives to help maintain the freshness during storage. It all smelled the same to him, he never considered the taste. "Does one taste better than another?"

Abby finished her sketch of the pitchfork shape. After drawing another sip of the blood she sat down with her back to the wall and arms across her knees. She nodded. "With the man the other day, the blood tasted foul – like a rotting corpse." Abby shuddered at the memory. "Younger, healthier blood is sweet."

Owen's mind spun with many thoughts about Abby's victims. More than five years of this life, and Owen never gave one thought about Abby's preference. The victims at Los Alamos seemed like the type she enjoyed. The other man, the one he mistook for Abby's father, understood more than Owen ever had. Owen wanted to yield to Abby's wishes, but the thought of choosing young victims prodded revulsion. Those closest to death were preferable for Owen's liking, but this was not about Owen; it was about Abby. "What was the age of the youngest victim?" Owen wondered.

Averting her eyes, Abby answered. "My uncle would sometimes tempt me with infants. They were so delicious, yet they contained so little blood - heavenly and horrifying at the same time. I think he enjoyed watching my struggle more than he enjoyed the taste." Abby looked through Owen with her brow furrowed by angry memories. She whispered, "He opened a vein in the baby. Compelled by cravings, I drank. Then he drank blood from me. He said that way we both could savor the sweetness." The memory of this monstrous abomination was revealed in Abby's pain. "He was a sick man, my uncle."

"Is that who you are trying to protect us from? Did you have another dream?" Abby nodded. Owen felt guilty about not remembering his find from the day before. He pulled out the torn sheet from his pocket and unfurled it. "Abby, I found this yesterday at the library. It's about your uncle. I think we'll be okay."

Abby dropped the medical bag filled with blood on the floor. She jumped up and grasped the encyclopedia page from Owen's hand. She held it lightly, like it was a fragile crystal. Smearing blood on the page Abby touched the lithograph picture. Her eyes scanned the page. "Owen this is wonderful. Thank you." Her tears conflicted with her smile as she threw her arms around Owen's waist. Owen could not decide whether she was happy or sad, but he saw her internal conflict, "Do you know what this means?" Abby asked.

The tears confused Owen. _Was she experiencing some inner turmoil?_ Perhaps she had love for her uncle along with the contempt. He had not prepared himself for Abby being saddened over her death. "Sure... It means your uncle's dead. You're safe."

Abby pulled away and studied the picture again, soaking in the image. She read through the words again this time slower. She tried to wipe the blood from the image, smearing it into a greater mess. "This isn't a picture of N'oncle Jean-Louis. This is my father. … Look … it says he retired in France." Her smiled widened with the flowing tears. "I always assumed he was executed by the British." She took the page and squirreled into the corner of the room. "He looks wonderful. This is a vision from on high, a precious gift. Thank you, Owen."

Owen sat down next to his companion. She leaned her head onto his shoulder in her familiar way. Licking the blood off of her fingers, she kept trying to touch the picture like it actually was her father. Thrilled with Abby's joy, but he had hoped the article was proof the nightmarish uncle was gone. "Maybe we could try to visit the zoo again tonight?" Owen asked.

"No … I think we should just stay here tonight." In almost a whisper she added, "Behind the wall." Her eyes glanced up from the paper in the direction of the symbols of protection. They were just images like the one on the paper. _How much power could be contained within an image? _Glancing at the picture of Abby's father, Owen realized _quite a lot._


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Infectious Curiosity

November 12, 1988

**Javier Sacco**

Like most Saturday's, Javier searched out his old friends for a day of fútbol or, as his family calls it soccer. He knew he wasn't a great player, but he loved the game. The team working together to force the ball down field to the goal was the best sort of escapist fun.

With his champion's league ball was cradled in his arms, he jogged to the parking lot league of his old neighborhood friends. He wore his lucky red and white striped shirt from his favorite Mexican team, Chivas Guadalara. Every few minutes he let the ball drop down to bounce it off his thigh or foot and he tried to keep it in the air. The juggling continued until he headed the ball into the street directly in front of an oncoming car. The honking horn warned him that he should try to limit his juggling to a safer place.

Economic despair was a boon for soccer. They had commandeered this empty spot every Saturday since the mill shut down. The lot was large and empty – perfect for their impromptu games. Javier was surprised to find the old man and his cardboard box gone from the alley, but he didn't give him much thought. Emerging from the alley, he was greeted by a dozen or so of his old friends setting up markers for boundaries and goal posts.

Unfortunately, these friends knew him too well. When it came time to select a team, Javier's condition resigned him to being selected last, just like at elementary school. At least he was chosen to play with Miguel – his old-best friend – the one he barely knew anymore.

With Miguel in goal and Javier playing fullback, the game began. Fullback suited him well with little running required. The game started with Javier's midfielders taking control and pressing the attack. Within minutes defense became monotonous. Javier's attention wandered to the abandoned mill.

The nearby steel mill was cold and lifeless. Wood covered the windows on the ground floor mill level. Light smoke diffused from around the edge of one of the windows into the parking lot. _I hope the mill isn't on fire._ The faint string of smoke crept upward. It diffused with the sky, fading into obscurity. At least it didn't seem to be getting any worse.

The windows on the second floor of the adjoining offices building were clear. Enormous plate glass windows overlooked the parking lot playing field. Spider web cracks – from a few successful rock throwing attempts – adorned the windows. Javier was shocked by the appearance of a mysterious, bearded face in the window staring down at them. _It must have been my imagination. He's gone._

Drawn back to the game by cries from his anxious teammates, Javier's turned his attention to the field of play. An opponent dribbled the ball toward the goal, and Javier was out of position. Trapped off to the side and almost at midfield, he raced to catch up to his adversary. Miguel screamed commands while Javier felt another opponent hustling down the sideline. His chest heaved with the desire to overtake the opponent. Then, his airways seized, causing him to lose a step. Javier fought through the burning ache in his chest, but he couldn't gain any ground.

With one final effort, he leaped forward, face first and arms outstretched. He would gladly take the handball penalty. Anticipating the maneuver, with an effortless flick of his foot, the opponent passed the ball to his teammate. The ball flew past Javier's outstretched arms. Instead of a gallant defense he earned gravel burns on his cheek and hands. And he couldn't breathe.

Rolling over on his back, Javier pushed against the ground, grasping for air. He watched helplessly as the opponent artistically passed the ball from one foot to the other before sending it into the net for the first score of the game. In the blink of an eye the offensive pressure by Javier's team was erased by a cheap goal made while Javier was napping.

His opponents gloated over his weakness. They laughed, "Chiva; that is a good team for you - the goat." The other team enjoyed the joke at the expense of the Chivas Guadalara shirt he wore.

Javier returned the taunt with his practiced glare. _Please,_ _not here_, he thought. The stress on his chest slowly cleared as he wedged up higher on his elbows. The other kids were frustrated with the delay.

"Ah, come on, alcornoque!" Miguel yelled the insult while retrieving the ball from behind the goal line. "Maybe you should take a break. This game is too much for you. Come back during the little kid's game."

Miguel's words stung. Javier was trapped between two worlds, but the soccer field with other Latinos was one place he felt most at home. Once he caught his breath, Javier limped off the field. _Maybe there is a way into the factory to wash my face and hands_. Hepounded on the back entrance several times with the side of his fist. _ I know there is someone in there. I saw his face._ Then he wandered around to the side. This door was missing a handle, but it was wedged slightly ajar. He pounded on it a few times – the door jiggled. Javier thought he might be able to work it free. _Success, it opened!_

_Madre Maria, protect me! _Javier thought. _Grabbed in the throat by some crazy maniac! He was going to kill me for sure. _ After the encounter, Javier leaned against the side of the mill and took a couple of quick breaths from his inhaler. Then he scurried on home, forgetting his ball at the soccer field.

**Owen**

Owen woke late in the morning to the sound of a rat scurrying along the wall with the cat chasing after it. _You get him, Toto!_ He stretched to release the pain within his sore back and chest. He had fallen asleep against the cold concrete wall cradling Abby in his arms. She had returned to her bin after sucking down a few more bags of blood while he suffered.

As a child, Saturday was the day Owen looked forward to the most. Filled with lazy pajama-clad mornings of watching cartoons, he enjoyed the effortless absence of responsibility. In Pueblo, Owen was anchored to his dreary steel mill nest. Outside children played a makeshift game of soccer in the parking lot while Abby slept within her steel and blanket cocoon. Leaving the mill meant exposing the weak door to the prying eyes of children. The monotonous existence quickly magnified Owen's boredom. There were only so many ways to stir the fire.

The sun was up, so he had pretty good vision around the mill. The colossal concrete production floor had been his home now for several weeks. He had explored its nooks to the point he knew all the best bat hangouts. He spent a little time studying the artwork decorating the wall. One looked like three crescent moons intersecting each other in a looping triangle. From a distance the elaborate design with the swirls and balls looked even more like a tree. The balls reminded him of fruit. Another symbol was drawn like a "T" with an eye on top. _Wonder what these mean?_

Today, he decided to explore the office areas. Abby was frightened by the large, uncovered plate glass windows in the second floor, so they avoided them. He hurried up those steps to vanquish his curiosity. There were a few items left up here - a couple of bookcases, desks and office chairs. Owen considered the uses of those swivel chairs.

With not much to do, Owen took the time to stare at the game in progress. One team was pressing the offense to the opposite end of the field. Not confident of the rules or strategy, Owen though they seemed to be the better team. They kept control of the ball. Owen noticed one bored boy maintaining his position with nothing to do. The youth glanced at the mill. Owen withdrew, hoping he wasn't seen.

Finding nothing else of interest upstairs, Owen casually wandered back to the mill floor. The cavernous room was silent until he heard the echo of someone trying to open the back door. The chain held fast. The would-be intruder pounded on the door and demanded, "Déjame entrar."

A rumbling growl escaped from Abby in her sleep. Her nostrils flared from the scent of nearby. Fresh blood. The crunching gravel, hinted at footsteps moving to the side of the building. Owen walked over the side door, mentally reviewing what to do if the door should open. Abby was his first concern. Daytime, they would need to find a place to hide. Owen's makeshift lock, the sledgehammer was wedged in place underneath the door's push-bar.

The lever-like handle vibrated with the effort of someone outside. It bounced up and down on the sledgehammer. After several pushes the hammer rattled and fell over. Owen hurried down the stairs in an effort to grab the door before it opened, but he was too late. Sunlight flared through the fresh opening, temporarily blinding Owen. A young Hispanic boy, the same one he saw on the playing field, peeked through and said, "Hola." He squinted, trying to adjust to the darkness. To Owen's horror, blood dripped from the side of his face.

Toto hissed at the intruder from the top of the stairs. Increasing Owen's anxiety, he heard a loud growl from the trash bin where Abby was sleeping. She smelled the blood. He reacted quickly, grabbing the boy by the shirt. "Get out of here, now!"

"I just want to wash up," the boy said in a Spanish accent.

"I don't care. Leave or you will die." Owen shoved him to the ground. The boy's bewildered look exhaled uncertainty. Owen gave the boy his best crazy face. The boy leaped up and bounded away to Owen's slamming of the door. He wasn't coming back again.

Owen heard a deep-throated snarl coming from the trash bin, but Abby continued to sleep. He replaced the hammer under the door and tested it several times to ensure functionality.

Owen was upset at himself for his anger. The boy had an exploratory curiosity that Owen remembered from his own childhood. _I'm only eighteen_, he thought, _still young_. Turning away, he noticed for the first time that there was a small door under the steps leading to a level beneath the main floor. He momentarily forgot about the soccer players. A new opportunity for exploration. It was like he was twelve again in the basement of his apartment building.

The door led to a low room beneath the floor. Damp smell of mildew percolated from the entry. The floor was nothing but hard, damp ground, like a crawl space. The room was so dark, he couldn't see beyond a few feet from the door opening. He wished he had batteries for that flashlight he found in the old vagrant's box in the alley.

Excited by his new discovery, Owen ran up the stairs to the fire. It had dwindled down to low burning coals. He broke off a few planks from one of the pallets and tossed them in the fire. Within a few minutes, the timbers were flaming. Donning his leather gloves he pulled it out like a torch.

Returning to the door, he discovered a cave of awe and surprise. Underneath the main floor, enormous steel I-beam supported concrete slabs. Red brick pillars led from the I-beams to the ground, possibly all the way to bedrock. The area under the sub-floor was stuffed with knickknacks and trinkets. Sort of like Owen's grandmother's attic. Somebody forgot to clean it out when they closed the factory. Inside were a few ladders and power tools. Owen found an old push lawnmower – one with a rotating blade and no engine. I w_onder what they needed that for. There is no grass around here._

He recognized the base of the blast furnace which fanned out for support. The diameter was twice the size as it was upstairs. Valves and piping ran to the base providing fuel. Another metal door stemmed from the side which looked like it was designed as an ash dump. On the other side of the basement from the furnace was a diesel generator was located, surrounded by drums of fuel. _Have to keep the torch away from that!_ Near the base of the furnace were various size chains, ropes, and pulleys. _Ropes could be useful._

Ropes that ranged from a finger size diameter to arm size lay scattered around the ground. Owen grasped one of the smaller ropes when one of the larger ones grew in size and rattled. Startled by the motion, Owen jumped. He nearly dropped his torch. A huge anaconda size rope uncoiled and slithered away from Owen with fork-shaped tongue darting from side to side. As Owen gathered his wits, he took time to study the snake.

It shrunk as he watched - much smaller than he first thought - closer to six feet in length. The gray diamond shaped pattern ended in a rattle that shook quietly from side to side. The snake skittered through a crack in the wall which ended Owen's momentary excitement. _I guess Toto isn't the only one chasing rats around here. _The flame was advancing down the torch toward Owen's hand. Time to leave. He grabbed one of the smaller ropes, took one last visual inventory of the contents of the basement, and hurried back to the main floor.

Up and awake, Abby was seated in the trash bin, studying the encyclopedia article while sucking down the contents of another satchel of blood. Owen tossed the flaming plank into the fire. He was getting worried about Abby. Her skin was becoming bloated and brighter. "You need to slow down on the blood. I don't think it is good for you. This blood needs to last us all winter."

"I can't help it," Abby complained. "What's the problem? If we run out, we'll just get more."

"The problem," Owen said, "is that they increased the security at the blood bank. The entire town is in an uproar over the theft. It's like we're mass murderers or something." When he thought about it, this declaration did not even make any sense – _we are mass murderers_. "So try to control yourself … please," he begged.

"It's like this stuff doesn't provide any nourishment. It fills my stomach, but I get hungry again. I can't stand it!"

Owen remembered the supplies he purchased at the Blazing Crescent. The books promised a potion that could cure her illness. "I have something that might help, if you can be a little patient."

He grabbed a soup can and filled it half full with water from the bathroom sink. He added the ingredients from the plastic baggy to the soup can and placed it into the coals of the fire. Stirring with a stick he talked through what he was doing. Abby ignored him while rereading the article about her father. Within a few minutes the mixture began to boil. It slowly congealed into a thick, pulpy soup. Owen pulled it out of the fire and set it aside. Steam emerged from the can as it cooled.

Owen held the can out to get Abby's attention. "I have something for you to drink."

"Oh, no," Abby protested. "You know I can't."

"Please, Abby. Please, give it a try." Eager for her to try the mixture, Owen thought of something that might appeal to her. "It's really important to me. It may stop the aftertaste from the blood." He was eager. He prayed … he dreamed … he wished. If the book was right, this could be a cure.

Climbing out of her sleeping bin, Abby gave Owen a bashful smile. This melted his heart. She relented in agreement. "Okay. I'll try," she said. She knelt on the floor next to Owen and took the can of soup from him. Lifting the can to her face she wrinkled her nose. "It doesn't smell very good."

Owen held his breath mumbling a prayer for success. Where else could he turn? Abby brought the can to her lips. Owen's heart juddered. The research, the time – it all coalesced into this one hope. He did not dare dream what their life would be like if she were cured. Their life could be so much better – so much saner. They could plan for the future and they could grow old together. It was a faint hope, worth believing in.

With a deep breath and closed eyes Abby tipped the can into her mouth and swallowed one big gulp. "It's really good," she said.

"Really?" Owen smiled as she nodded. Then her expression changed to distress. A low rumbling moan escaped her throat. Her chest constricted in a struggle to keep the liquid down. She closed her eyes, fighting the irrepressible instinct. She swallowed again, trying to hold it in.

Her stomach quivered in a spasm. Giving in to the impulse her body violently expelled the vile concoction over the floor. Owen would not have been so disappointed had it not been for the vast quantities of blood that followed the potion out of Abby's lips. Owen held Abby while she heaved. His hands were full of blood and mucous.

"Wow, that's a lot of blood," was all he could think to say. Looking paler than she had for a few days, Abby returned to her bin. She let out an occasional whimper in her agony.

"Thanks for trying," Owen said. "I won't make you do it again." Owen purged his hopeful plans for the future. Life with Abby was going to continue to be trying, but he expected as much. Owen left to clean his hands and arms in the sink. The he retrieved the bleach and the cleaning supplies. With luck the potion would assuage her hunger for a few days.

**November 13, 1988**

**Owen**

Like tinkling glass, bells rang in the distance. Worried for Abby, Owen woke to– a consequence of living in the city for which Owen hadn't planned. Churches were all around them. Some were bound to ring bells for Sunday service. Those weird symbols on the wall did not provide protection from the sound. She remained asleep under her blankets, restless, but otherwise undisturbed by the noise. With nothing better to do today, Owen arose and wandered outside.

In a short while he found himself standing outside St. Simeon's church. The bells had been long silent and a mass was in session. He hated the feeling, but he was drawn to some need – some desire for fellowship. For several moments he struggled with the decision to go inside, but finally a mania overcame his aversion. He opened the heavy, creaking doors to the vestibule.

Once inside, Owen saw a well-dressed usher. He resisted the temptation to run. The elderly man, wearing his Knight of Columbus pin, smiled in his direction and waved him in.

Owen tried to avoid any unwanted attention. His tattered, inside-out coat betrayed him. He stayed to the back, off to the side, observing from the narthex. He settled into the spot just as the audience sat down. The simultaneous groan of a hundred pews rumbled through the otherwise quiet church. Lit candles adorned the linen covered altar and the marble shelves of the tabernacle. Someone coughed. In between the black and white dressed altar servers sat the smiling, bearded priest in his green robes. Owen fought back disdain and turned his attention to the first speaker who rose and walked to the lectern.

After a few moments of meditation the speaker started, "A reading from the book of the prophet Isaiah.

Your new moons and festivals I detest; they weigh me down, I tire of the load. When you spread out your hands, I close my eyes to you; Though you pray the more, I will not listen. Your hands are full of blood! Wash yourselves clean! Put away your misdeeds from before my eyes; cease doing evil; learn to do good. Make justice your aim: redress the wronged, hear the orphan's plea, defend the widow. Come now, let us set things right, says the Lord: Though your sins be like scarlet, they may become white as snow; Though they be crimson red, they may become white as wool.

This is the word of the Lord."

The crowd responded with "Thanks be to God." When the speaker mentioned "the orphan's plea" Owen noticed a husband and wife turn to the child between them. He was surprised to recognize the scabbed over cheek of the boy who opened the door to the steel mill yesterday. He held his breath. The boy faced his mother's direction looking straight toward Owen. The boy's smile turned to anger – he had seen him. Owen retreated behind a pillar, hiding from the boy's glare.

In doing so, he took in a completely different area of the congregation. He recognized somebody new; somebody heavily praying with her eyes squeezed tight. Of all people, Jane from the Blazing Crescent sat alone in the pew. _How could she possibly be Catholic? I wonder if she detested "new moon festivals" the way Isaiah commanded._

Rooted to the spot, for some reason he could not understand, he was transfixed by the memories of the ceremony. It was familiar and comforting – at least for now. His heart beat loudly. He looked over at the usher to see if it drew his attention. The usher returned his welcoming smile. Unnerved by the attention, Owen decided to stay.

A cantor rose next to the choir and sang in a shaky, aging falsetto, "My soul is thirsting for you, O Lord my God." The audience repeated the refrain. The cantor followed with the verse, "O God, you are my God whom I seek; for you my flesh pines and my soul thirsts like the earth, parched, lifeless and without water."

The crowd echoed the refrain once again. Owen's mind wandered through the desert. Despite the cold, Pueblo was Owen's desert – lifeless, friendless – his soul thirsted for more, but his flesh pined for Abby. Starving in the desert, Owen was out of ideas. The books, the research, and the mysticism of the church could not satisfy his thirst. This is why he came today – the library failed him, the Blazing Crescent failed him. What was left? A miracle.

Before he knew it, the first reader replaced the cantor at the lectern. "A reading from the Letter of St. Paul to the Romans," he read "Do this, knowing the time, that it is already the hour for you to awaken from sleep; for now salvation is nearer to us than when we believed. The night is almost gone, and the day is near. Therefore let us lay aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light. This is the word of the Lord."

Owen knew all too well the deeds of darkness. Saint Paul was wrong. He could not believe salvation was near. Without hope, he foresaw many more deeds of darkness in his future.

The lector sat down and the priest stood. The flowing green robes floated across the altar. Out of rote habit, Owen thumbed his forehead, lips, and heart. At first Owen ignored the words of the priest. The man evoked an ingrained hostility within him. This priest, the messenger of God, embodied the dismemberment of Owen's family. His pronouncements fed the void of anger. He barely heard him, until these new words rang through clearly, "'Again I say to you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.' When the disciples heard _this_, they were very astonished and said, "Then who can be saved?" And looking at _them_ Jesus said to them, 'With people this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.'" The priest added, "This is the Word of the Lord," and he kissed the Gospel. The pews once again groaned as backsides settled into position.

Father Erasmus introduced the homilist for this morning's mass – Gabriella Agosto – the beautiful angel from the library. _Wonder what she is going to speak about. _She stood behind the lectern, knees shaking with nervousness. She glanced around the congregation and concentrated on the slip of paper in her hands. "There is sin and evil in the world, and we're enjoined by Scripture and the Lord Jesus to oppose it with all our might. This evil takes many forms, and it lives right here in Pueblo. It resides in our streets in the crime and murder; it resides in the illnesses faced by many families; it resides in the hatred of prejudice; and it resides in the desperate poverty faced by many."

Owen wondered what she knew. He was captivated. The cold tingle of uncertainty trickled up his back. _Evil dwells in Pueblo._ Owen should know, he wakes up with it every night.

Gabriella continued, "Today I wish to speak of the evil despair faced by those abandoned when the shelter closed. I have a simple request for all of you. Each of you has a chance to travel through the needle's eye and enter the Kingdom of God. As Saint Paul says, 'Salvation is near.' It is as simple as a small sacrifice for those in need. Your soul thirsts for it. Even those of you with little to spare cannot understand the misery of someone who does not know how to find warmth or acquire their next meal. It is in our power to help and that is all that I ask. If you can't afford to donate money, we need help with repairs before we can reopen the Wayside Hope shelter. Defeating this evil is an impossible task, but with the Grace of God all things are possible. Thank you."

After giving her sermon, Gabriella walked down the stairs to quiet applause and sat down in the pew. Next to her was the blond boy from the Goodwill store. The teen stood to greet Gabriella and looked straight at Owen. _Damn! What is he doing here? _It's like the entire town came to the mass. _Did he recognize me?_ All Owen needed was for Blaise and Greg to enter the church. Then they could challenge his thievery before God.

Gabriella was right, but there was no salvation here. Evil in Pueblo was in the form of a blonde, freckled guy who took his money. Owen darted from the church repulsed in fear of recognition. The huge oaken doors slammed their disdain for his presence. Owen was angry at himself for listening to the priest and a pretty girl. It was all a story told to children to give them hope. Owen was no longer a child. These tall tales held no more meaning than Paul Bunyan or Peter Rabbit. He had no time for hope. He needed answers.

**Jane Mosi**

With eyes squeezed shut Jane prayed with fervor. Her interlaced fingers reddened from the strain. She had not been to church in many years, not since Selkie's baptism. But she demanded some answer of hope for her sister's return. Selkie remained at the state park. Fragile and innocent, Jane should never have let her camp alone. Selkie considered it a place of peace, but that park held such terrifying memories for Jane. _Of all places, why does she have to camp there?_

In her impassioned prayer, Jane barely heard the readings. She missed most of her cues for standing and kneeling, but she didn't care. She knew nobody here. _ Please, Selkie … please return home safely. _A young lady rose to speak. She said that evil lived right here in Pueblo. _Not here,_ Jane wanted to scream. _Evil lives buried just beneath the rippling waters of Lake Pueblo!_ But she held her silence and quickened her prayer. _That is an evil place._

Surprised to hear the creaking door open in the rear of the church. She turned in time to see jeans and black Converse high tops running from the church. They looked familiar. Maybe she knew someone at this church after all.

**Tony Sacco**

Raised in a strict Italian household, Tony was a passive Catholic at best – Sunday was a day for watching football. Aileen, with her bright red Irish hair, also held little interest in the tradition, at least until the adoption. After that, she considered it a gift to raise Javier in the same Christian tradition that they were all educated in – for an hour a week, anyway.

Today, Tony could not even remember who the Broncos were playing … _maybe the Browns_. His thoughts and prayers were dedicated to himself. He prayed to be rid of this fear. Charlie was right. He was a coward.

Aileen ruffled Javier's hair and smiled in Tony's direction. The speaker had said something about hearing the orphan's plea. Tony beamed a grin in return. _ I guess we're doing a good thing. _ Three years as a parent, yet he knew little about Javier. Tony never was a very good listener. _But why does Javier look angry?_

The rest of the readings flew by. A young, pretty Hispanic girl began to speak about evil in Pueblo. During her talk, Tony glanced at the wooden crucifix above the altar. For a moment he thought he saw the Jesus figure weep blood, just like Dunstan. She was right. _There is evil in Pueblo. It lives in the decrepit Black Kettle Elementary School. It lives in my blood._ Dunstan knew that evil. Tony could not forget the sight of those bloody teeth. He prayed that he could accept his fate with half the grace of that young man. But he knew he wouldn't. Thirty years and he never faced a real challenge. _I coast through this life on autopilot_. Maybe he could find grace in the next one.

Aileen reached around Javier and caressed Tony's shoulder. A remnant of the private intimacy they shared the night before. He was glad he succumbed to her suggestion. They lay awake for nearly an hour afterward beneath the strewn sheets. Just laughing and talking like they were back in high school. He had missed that shared closeness.

While touching his shoulder she whispered, "Thanks for coming to mass. You're the bravest man I've ever known." Aileen was embarrassed when Tony's loud guffaw echoed through the quiet church. By now she should be accustomed to his philistine behavior.

Time for the communion, Tony followed Aileen and Javier, uncertain of the ritual. When it was his turn, the bearded priest held up the tasteless cookie and muttered, "The Body of Christ." The priest place the wafer on Tony's extended tongue. It held fast to the roof of his mouth. Following Javier to the next stop, Tony tried to peel it away with his tongue. He wished he had something to drink.

At the next station a lay minister held a crystal goblet up to Tony. "The Blood of Christ," he said. Like those before him Tony took hold of the chalice and brought it to his lips. He inhaled a sickly sweet, fruity odor of wine. He tilted the cup to his lips and accepted a sip. It washed the wafer from his mouth. The burning liquid streamed from his tongue down his throat. He felt the purifying effects of the fire radiate through his chest. He could almost imagine the poison being burned away from inside. It satisfied his thirst, at least for today. _Better than football!_

**Owen**

The journey home was frightful. With each step his heart pounded in fear. Behind every turn was a person who could recognize him from the newspaper. At the end of one street, Owen saw the shoulder of a beggar. _It could be Greg_. Owen refused to find out. He turned around and found another path back to the mill. Fourth Street Bridge was not an option – Blaise and Greg could be at home beneath the abutment - trolls waiting to pounce on a blood demon. He took the long way around.

There were people everywhere! Most ignored him. Owen averted his eyes at those who greeted him with smiles and kindness. _Did they recognize the coat? Could they guess why it was inside-out? _

_Main Street Bridge or the railroad?_ The railroad bridge was closer. Owen chose that one. Striding over the railroad bridge, he was exposed to the entire city. _This was a mistake! _Thin tresses couldn't hide him. Cars driving by on the streets, pedestrians, everyone could see him. Nearly paralyzed with fear he had to force himself to put one foot in front of the other. Staring at the tracks, a train could come, and he would miss it.

Finally, after his debilitating trek, Owen returned back to the mill. Once inside, the walls closed in. The oppressive, tomb-like quiet distorted his fears. The cavernous prison walls could not contain his worries. Even the mill was not safe; this was not home. In tears he shook Abby awake. The bright green, comforting eyes opened in welcome. "What is it Owen?" she asked.

"We have to leave. It isn't safe here anymore."

Abby reached up and gently rubbed his cheek. "It will be okay, Owen. It is a big city. You said we could disappear within the crowds."

Owen sobbed in frustration. Years of worry and frustration tumbled through his thoughts. The responsibility for Abby was too much. "It isn't safe. Too many people know me. They are beginning to suspect where we live. They will find us soon. If it is daytime, I don't know what I'll do. Please, let's just leave." He crouched, almost in the fetal position. He hoped and prayed Abby would do what is right. Tonight they would leave and find a new place. _Maybe another small town. Those worked well before. Maybe they could get to Utah or California within a day. Nobody knows about us in those states._

Abby clambered out of her bin. With a strength that always surprised Owen, she cradled him in her arms. "It will be all right, Owen. We've only been here a few weeks, and I have plenty of blood. We shouldn't leave until all of it is gone."

Abby lifted Owen up and carried him over to the mattress. She sat down, the entire time cradling his balled up body in her arms. "I've been around longer than you," she continued. She brushed his matted hair out of his teary eyes and played with his scraggly beard. "People may see you, but they get caught up in their own needs."

She rocked him slowly back and forth and kissed his forehead. "It's different this time, Abby. Like that lady the other night. People know about us."

"It's always different and always the same," Abby said. "After a few days, they forget. People get wrapped up in their own little lives. We will just stay here – in the mill – until you're ready. Out of sight and out of mind." She glanced at the wall decorated with the esoteric, bloody symbols. "We're safe here … protected." She lay down next to Owen and pulled the blankets tight over their heads. Like a distant memory, she held him the way his mother used to hold him when things were at their worst.

She was right. Abby knew just what to do. Wrapped up in her arms, he felt safe ... secure … comforted. Owen did not even wonder why Abby was compelled to stay in Pueblo. Then he would understand that no protection in the world could save him. He fell asleep, resting in Abby's arms.


	13. Chapter 13

Note: Chapters 13 was once Chapter 8

Chapter 13

The Price of Blood

November 19, 1988

**Owen**

Blood. The life giving river flows through each of us. This single sanguinary miracle conveys vital nutrients throughout our bodies. It is an equal opportunity courier – it distributes poison just as easily as oxygen. _We all depend on it._ Blood is precious and there is never enough. A point driven home by the photograph in today's newspaper.

Owen stroked the side of the painted blue, metal newspaper dispenser with his bare fingers. His sole pair of gloves abandoned on the roof of the steel mill. He gave up and turned his coat with the blood-stained silk lining hidden inward. The cold metal burned through his skin, reminding him he was still alive.

Her elementary school photograph, filled with joyful innocence, was set in the frame of another, larger picture – her languid nine year old body lying in the street. The angle was wrong; it didn't show her face. The black and white photo couldn't capture the bright pink shade of her leggings or the denim skirt ... or the matching pink hair ribbon rippling in the breeze.

When he first saw her yesterday, Owen thought she was already dead. The dark red stain pooled beneath her. Gabriella straddled her small frame screaming "Stop!" Then the little girl's foot rolled side to side - a momentary thrill of illusory hope as false as that of a cure for Abby. Perseus didn't slay the serpent – it was just a stupid story.

Numb with self-incrimination and doubt he learned her name from the news report – Teodelina Escalante. Her death seemed so unreal, hallucinatory, like it occurred in some other place and time – something that wasn't associated with Owen at all. But he knew better. She was on her way home from school – an innocent bystander. Owen killed that little girl just as easily as he swung a tire iron against the head of the old man in the alley.

His eyes closed in shock and disbelief, the horrors of yesterday's events washed over him. Blaise huddled on the sidewalk, quivering in fear. Greg shook Owen by the shoulder. "I'm glad you're here. Cover me!"

"With what?" Owen asked as Greg tore into the street.

And it was all for naught. Abby thrashed in agony as tears of blood streamed down her cheeks. Owen cradled her tight in the crimson blanket. "What's wrong? Tell me what is happening."

"I don't know!" Abby cried. "Help me!" He would give just about anything, his food, his principles, his life, to restore the delight to her angelic smile. But he did not know how. Poison flowed though her veins.

Owen couldn't bear the loss of the little girl. There were no cures for Teodelina. All of the miracles were drowned in the river of history. Yesterday was a tragic, terrifying day. And it was for nothing. The blood was worthless.

November 18, 1988

**Owen**

After four days stuck inside the mill, Owen fought the struggle between boredom and his near terminal fear of others. Today boredom was victorious compelling him to venture forth once again. The sun was shining and pigeons were cooing. He felt alive with anticipation. It was a pleasant respite from the continual suckling sounds of their disappearing blood bank stores.

Abby was right. In the isolating time with her, nobody pounded on the mill door, the police hadn't found them, and not one of his Pueblo acquaintances had tracked him down. His sense of security and confidence returned; he surrendered to his wanderlust. As much as he hated to admit it, he was beginning to enjoy his discovery of the city's communal comforts. In the last six years, most of his time was spent alone with Abby, devoid of others. It was not enough. He found himself missing the company of others.

With his own hunger satisfied for the moment by his stash of Oriental noodles, he did not begrudge the vagrant populations. In many ways they seemed worse off than him – poor, twitching from the cold, toothless, and hungry … very hungry. _ Maybe they weren't aware of the special on Ramen Noodles. _He greeted them with kind aloofness since he didn't have any money to share.

Owen wandered to the southwest section of town. He had not spent much time there and he was open to new sites to discover, as well as new people to meet. He scampered over the Main Street Bridge, attracting very little notice, and down Lake Avenue. Northern Avenue was lined with a number of stores, and some were even open. A cheery bicyclist with yellow protective helmet, spandex pants and riding gloves waved as he drove by.

Owen ducked instinctively when he heard a crack of thunder reverberating from the sky. He glanced up to see barely a cloud – just a few wispy cirrus clouds floating against the periwinkle blue. _Where'd the thunder come from?_ Police sirens blared and a black and white vehicle crossed Northern Avenue from the cemetery. For the moment, curiosity overwhelmed his fear, and he darted after the police cruiser.

**Jane**

_Debits to the left; debits to the left; debits to the left._ Jane soothed herself with the stability of that phrase - one she learned while gaining her Associates Degree in Accounting. Mrs. Fink, her favorite instructor through the program, told her whenever she had any doubts, always remember "debits to the left." That familiar litany relaxed Jane during exams and other times of stress. She repeated the calming phrase while contacting Rufus for the third time this morning.

"Rufus, please," Jane begged into the phone. Water trickled down her cheeks; her eyes burned. She pleaded for his help one more time. Why couldn't he understand the necessity? _Selkie is only seventeen!_

The store was in shambles. Jane wasn't taking care of it. Dust covered the silent stereo system and the incense had burned out days ago. The ambiance reeked of worry and frustration. Jane's pacing wore a path in the carpet which led nowhere.

Rufus T. Barleysmith sighed into the phone, "I can't right now. I have positions to fill. The election may be over, but the work has just begun. A lot of people paid a ton of money for access to the city's till. I have to make sure it is all legal."

"She has been at the park for almost three weeks now. I hate that dreadful lake!" How could she explain her anguish? "She needs me, but she'll be angry if I come get her. I need you to get her. She'll listen to you."

A tinkling bell sound announced the presence of a new customer entering the store … Mrs. van Delden. Jane kept the receiver at her ear while smiling in the customer's direction. _God only knows what that nutcase wants. She just wants to trade stories about herbs and cures. _She'll buy something, but Jane was just someone for her to talk to – company for a lonely old lady. Jane pushed the mouthpiece away from her lips and cried, "I'll be with you in a minute."

"Take your time," Mrs. van Delden answered. She wandered over to the selection of talismans leafing through the anthology.

"I'll stop by after I'm done today. We'll talk then." Jane recognized the dismissal over the phone and began to grunt a protest. "I have to go. Look at the time ... I am late for a meeting with the Alliance for Colorado's Future whatever they want. I promise I will stop by." Without waiting for an answer, Rufus hung up the phone.

Jane awarded the dial tone with an impoverished glare. Furnishing her best faux smile she said, "What can I do for you today, Mrs. van Delden?"

**Aileen**

As she had many of the past few days, Aileen spent her breaks visiting the heart and lung surgery recovery wing of the hospital. A chorus of hacking coughs serenaded the floor. She had no business there. Neither did Lazarus, really. The wing was filled with ancient cigarette smokers and heart attack victims.

Lazarus was not her patient, but she couldn't erase her failure. Word traveled fast. Angry, scathing letters were flying to school board members. _How could they allow a diseased student at their child's school? What would happen if he bit someone? My child's safety should come first._ The school never released the name of the infected student, but everybody knew. Many classrooms were half full and homeschooling was the new fad in town – Pueblo's very own legwarmer-style craze.

By the time Lazarus had arrived at the hospital, his lungs were scarred from disease. Pneumonectomy sounded like innocuous medispeak, but a piece of his lung had been removed. With false enthusiasm, Aileen said, "He is looking better. How are you feeling today, Lazarus?" Until a few days earlier, Lazarus was stuffed with tubes to help him breathe.

Reclining in his adjustable hospital bed Lazarus polished off his bowl of pudding. "I'm feeling better thanks," he said politely. He was looking better, too. His cheeks were full and flush.

His mother had been discharged after only two days, yet the family had been sleeping in Lazarus's hospital room. The staff let them stay. Caleb had the run of the pediatric ward playroom. Nobody wanted to feel responsible for their welfare while Lazarus was a patient. Aileen addressed Isabel, "Good news on your daughter's health, isn't it?"

Sitting in the chair, Isabel averted her eyes out the window before composing herself. She said, "You had no right."

Aileen didn't understand. She thought Isabel would be pleased. Instead, she seemed even angrier. All she could think to say was "The doctors had no choice. It's required by law." Aileen was not entitled to know the results of the test, but the nurses all talk. Then she added, as if by justification, "I thought you would be relieved to discover she would be fine."

Isabel held her sleeping baby tight to her chest. "Fine? I've just traded one worry for another. Who's going to take care of her?"

"It'll work out," Aileen said optimistically. "Somebody always steps in to do what's right."

"That's just some lie rich people tell each other so they can sleep well at night."

"I'm not rich," Aileen responded, taken aback by her anger.

Isabel scoffed at this answer, but her fierce demeanor was betrayed by her watery eyes. It wasn't anger; it was fear for her daughter mixed with regret. Without words, Isabel displayed fury with herself at bringing a child into this life. In a small way, they shared a kinship. Aileen stomached some of the same worry for an uncertain future – a future where her adopted son may not have a father, but at least they had a home.

"I see he gets discharged tomorrow. Do you know where you are going to stay?"

Isabel shrugged, "I don't know. Some doorway or an overpass or an abandoned car. We've done it before. We'll survive."

It was a depressing thought. With family nearby, Aileen could not imagine this sort of life. Aileen wanted to hold back the most pressing question, but she was dying to know. "What about school? When do you start back?"

Lazarus answered with the angelic innocence of a child. "A couple of weeks after Thanksgiving. I can't wait." She'll have to warn Javier to be on his best behavior.

Aileen was interrupted by a routine sounding announcement from the hospital speakers, "Code Yellow. Dr. Mascal please report to the Emergency Room."

"I have to go," Aileen said rushed. "Dr. Mascal may need my help." She pointed to Lazarus, "Make sure you keep up with all of your therapy." She smiled when Lazarus held up his balloon – a tool to help exercise his lungs.

Outside the patient's room was a sudden flurry of activity as members of the hospital staff headed to emergency. It was code. There was no Dr. Mascal. In her years at the hospital, Aileen heard that announcement only in scheduled drills. Mascal was short for "Mass Casualty". There was some sort of incident in the city, and they expected to receive a number of emergency patients.

The hospital drills were always predicated on some sort of natural disaster or multi-vehicle auto accident. The sky was clear outside. Aileen didn't believe weather was involved, but somehow she was confident that Tony was.

**Tony Sacco**

Tony stood in the background during the graveside service. Concrete family mausoleums were interspersed between the occasional, peaceful evergreen tree. The name of the cemetery, Verdant Overlook, was a little bit of a stretch. As near as Tony could figure, the cemetery didn't overlook anything.

The mourning was a group of men with whom he shared a kinship, but with whom he did not belong. He didn't know Hugo, but he thought he should be here to show his support. Hugo passed away the day after his visit to his hospice. _That's how it happens some time_.

It was too sunny for a funeral … barely a cloud in the sky. A light swirling wind carried the blended scent of fresh dirt and diesel fumes from the backhoe. The bronze colored metal casket rested on green, canvas ribbons supported by a metal frame, ready for lowering for its final rest. Nearby many of the graves were decorated with flowers. Next to them an elderly man in a gray trench coat prayed to a different grave marker.

Standing in the back, the wind made it difficult to hear. Reverend Fletcher completed a story about a glorious death from a tragic life. It turns out his name wasn't Hugo after all. It was Mark Cole. It was a fine name for a boring factory worker, but a piteous label for the theatrical owner of a gay bar in Pueblo. Reverend Fletcher closed with a mournful, haunting poem from W. H. Alden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,  
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,  
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum  
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead  
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,  
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,  
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,  
My working week and my Sunday rest,  
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;  
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;  
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;  
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.  
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Tony could barely reconcile the beauty of the poetry with the spiteful sermonizer from the hospice. With the end of the prayer the members of the huddled masses uttered an uncomfortable "amen". Reverend Fletcher looked like he had swallowed too much lemon juice prior to the recitation. He passed out long stem hyssop stalk for each attendee. One by one they placed the hyssop on the coffin and made a little prayer for the memory of Hugo. Standing at the end of the plastic green carpet, Charlie received comforting words at the end of the service.

Near the end of the parade, Tony walked up to the casket. Without thinking he knelt down in the Catholic fashion, blessing himself. He felt awkward as none of the other mourners knelt graveside. Tony said a few words asking for God's grace to receive this soul in mercy – the soul of a man Tony did not know at all. Charlie was a nice guy, Hugo must be all right. Tony kissed his hand and rested it on the casket leaving the hyssop stalk on the lid with the rest of them.

He approached Charlie and shook his hand, "How are you holding up, buddy?" His eyes were shallow and sunken from apparent lack of sleep. His skin showed signs of jaundice. Charlie looked all of his thirty years and more as though his virus decided to grab on tight and not let go.

"I'm doing fine. I have my good minutes and my bad minutes. It's been a tough couple of years, and many sleepless nights. It's finally over. How about you?"

"Fine," Tony said. He wanted to provide comfort for a long remembered stranger, but he did not know what Charlie would find comforting. "I'm sure he is resting comfortably with God."

"Do you think so?" Charlie asked. He glanced around at the milling crowd. "Is there a paradise after this hell?"

Tony was not even sure what he thought. His own shallow faith recently rekindled by his possible infection. "I have to believe so. There has to be something out there. I hope our struggles get us somewhere." An ideal coalesced in Tony's mind. "You must believe in something. You asked Reverend Fletcher to preside over the ceremony."

"I just wanted to keep him off the street." Charlie laughed. "Do my part to keep the children safe for democracy. He didn't seem to be pleased to read the poem I asked of him. A declaration of my love for Hugo, but the Reverend braved through that request. I'll grant him that." He paused to gather his thoughts. "Sometimes I think silence is all that we need for paradise. After this life – nothing. I would be all right with that." Charlie placed his hand on Tony's shoulder. "If you are interested, we are having a wake over at the Club. You are welcome to join us. It's on the house." Charlie bobbed his head in the direction of the fading well-wishers.

He was appreciative for Charlie's graciousness. He doubted that stories of Hugo's lifestyle contained anecdotes that he would enjoy. "Can you afford that with your medical bills?" Tony wondered out loud.

"I'll manage. Come on. It'll be fun."

Save by the crackling of a police band walkie talkie, "Calling all units. 10-10 in the vicinity of Mesa and Camas … in the Fairgrounds area ... level two mobilization. Please respond." _Shots fired. Level two mobilization – it's been a long time since I heard that call._ Every available city wide unit responds. _It was only a few blocks away._

Tony picked up his handset and pressed the talk button. "10-4, this is unit R12 responding. Out." He replaced the handset on his belt. "Sorry, buddy. Gotta run. I'll take a rain check on that invitation."

"Go save the world," Charlie replied. Tony jogged back to his police cruiser. Fairgrounds area … street gangs are beginning to assert themselves. It is the only explanation for a city wide mobilization. With sirens blaring, he raced off.

**Gabriella Agosto**

Today, Gabriella and a few volunteers spent the day beautifying and improving the shelter. Accompanied by Billy, she was in charge of painting. A lovely shade of pale yellow, but it was clean.

Despite the limited funds, Father Erasmus worked miracles. The collections at the end of each mass were not nearly enough to cover the costs. On Sunday, Gabriella stood with the pastor as they greeted each parishioner in a high-class, kindhearted style of groveling. Most people were supportive.

Gabriella fashioned a forced smile when a haughty, fur-wrapped Mrs. Ferguson paraded by. Ignoring Gabriella, she greeted Father Erasmus with a ferocious handshake and loud, overbearing voice. "Father, that shelter was such an eyesore! We can finally clean up the city. Wouldn't it be better to convert it to a community center for the parish needs?"

"Then where will the residents stay?" Father asked with a more pleasant tone than Gabriella would have used.

"Maybe you should use the funds for one way bus tickets to Denver." Mrs. Ferguson laughed at her little joke. "They have much more room up there. Then we can have our community center."

"Maybe that coat would provide proceeds on its own to feed the residents for a year," Gabriella offered with an ingratiating smile. "I'm sure there would be enough left over for you to buy a one-way bus ticket to Denver."

"Why would I do that? My husband's car dealerships are here."

Every time her back hurt from painting, Gabriella imagined shoving that fur coat up Mrs. Ferguson's …. That gave her all the motivation she needed for the hard work. _Eyesore?_

While the paint was procured at a discount offered by the local Hechinger's, the other repair needs were not as simple. Father Erasmus found several electricians to donate their time. The shelter only needed to pay the costs of the materials. All that remained was help with the plumbing. Then the city should renew their permit.

The music stopped and the station broadcasted a breaking news story. Shots were fired in the fairgrounds area of the city. "The area is cordoned off and emergency vehicles are in transit. Everybody should avoid the area on the east side of the fairgrounds until further notice."

"Oh, my God," Gabriella gasped, dropping her paintbrush to the floor. A rushing, cutting chill of distress nearly overwhelmed her. "That's my neighborhood." She picked up the brush and wiped off the tile. "I have to go, Billy. Could you clean this up?"

Billy answered, "Sure. I'll follow after to see if you need any help." Gabriella donned her jacket and took off out the door.

**Tony Sacco**

With sirens blaring and lights blazing, the squad car squealed as it stopped at the entrance to Camas Street. He had angled it so that they engine was facing in. Alongside the curb lay a little girl with her school books scattered. A bullet pinged the police car's metal frame. Tony turned off the siren leaving the lights flashing and popped the trunk. Crouching behind the car, he reached over the rear quarter panel and pulled out the bag containing his body armor.

Two more squad cars pulled in, blocking the rest of the street – Roberto and Jesse. Roberto pulled his handset out of the car and requested an ambulance and backup units. Jesse crouched next to Tony while donning his vest. "This is incredible! I haven't had to wear this stuff since training!"

Jesse's excitement was infectious, but Tony didn't consider it 'incredible' by any stretch. For some reason, Tony never enjoyed getting shot at. A coward at heart, he just wanted to get home to Aileen and Javier. He updated Jesse on the situation while Jesse completed donning the gear.

"I'll check on the girl," Jesse said.

"Wait for more back up so that we can control the shooters," Tony cautioned. "You're not indestructible."

"As close as can be – I'll be fine." Tony looked around the edge of the car to analyze the scene. Before he knew it, Jesse was heading out into the street. A bullet ricocheted off the side of the building.

Tony caught the site of several bums watching from Mesa like this was some sort of entertainment. One of them ran screaming, completely bonkers, into the fray. A second was shaking on the ground behind a tree. The third was just a kid – _he's losing it_. "Is he okay?" Tony asked indicating to one on the ground. The kid nodded and shut his eyes tight.

**Owen**

It felt great to let loose. After several days of moping around the dank steel mill, the fresh air and sunlight brought him back to life. His flat bottomed Converse high tops made a smacking sound against the concrete sidewalk as Owen followed the police. The crisp cool air electrified his lungs. Bruising remained, but his ribs were starting to feel better. He could breathe with a little pain.

At first glance, this section of the city looked nicer than the other areas he had visited. Businesses were interspersed with homes with lawns. Primeval trees provided shade from the sun. But there was also torn siding and cars up on blocks.

He surrounded the corner onto Acero, leaving the noisy, busy traffic of Northern Avenue behind. The businesses in this section of town were locked up tight with metal reinforcement in front of the windows – _strange for the middle of the afternoon_. Blinking his eyes against the dust which blew from the fairgrounds, Owen saw flashing red lights around the bend in the road. Two more police cars cruised by him with sirens blaring and tires squealing around the corner.

Another thunder clap sounded when Owen turned the corner. He dove to the ground. It was followed by another piercing crash of a shattered window reverberating through the area. This time he was certain – it was a gunshot. Not two blocks ahead of him sat the three police cars facing the opening to the street. Two officers were hiding behind the doors in protective gear. Between Owen and the cruisers a man lay on the ground having some sort of seizure, all but ignored by the police. At a crawl, Owen approached the man, he recognized him - Blaise.

Worried for his friend's welfare, Owen reached up and shook his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Aaah," Blaise whimpered in fear otherwise ignoring Owen. Owen rolled him over to see his face. With his pupils rolled back, Blaise's eyes were completely white. His hands were arranged out front, like they were holding a rifle. Blaise's trigger finger twitched violently. He was blindly shooting at some phantom target. For a moment his eyes became focused on his hands. "My hands are covered with blood," he screamed before his pupils rolled back behind his eyelids.

Owen furiously scanned his body for an injury, while hiding from possible gunfire. Puzzled when he found no obvious wound or even any blood, Owen said, "I think you're okay." Trapped in his own personal hell, Blaise didn't answer.

Someone pushed on Owen's shoulder to get his attention. Greg, excited and wild-eyed, said, "Owen, I'm glad you're here. Forget about Blaise. He'll be okay. He's a damn coward. Cover me."

Greg ran off, hiding behind the corner of the building just before it entered into Camas Street. "With what?" Owen asked leaving the catatonic Blaise on the sidewalk.

A bullet ricocheted off the brick as Greg glanced out around the corner. He let out a wild squeal of delight, turned to Owen and said, "With a blanket – if they shoot me."

Greg raced out screaming into Camas. Not sure what to do, Owen crouched down against the brick wall.

One of the police officers, wearing a helmet and Kevlar vest with a shotgun in hand, hunkered down behind his cruiser only a few feet from Owen. With his face shield up he bobbed his head in Blaise's direction. "Is he okay?" he asked. Owen nodded. A second huge, black police officer pleaded for reinforcements into his radio handset with the cable extended out the car window.

From around the corner, beyond the police cruisers someone said, almost too calmly, "Tony, I've been shot. It's okay; it's not bad. I think I can make it back to you." A few seconds later the same voice continued, "Wow! That is a lot of blood."

Another person around the corner, hidden by the buildings squealed, "I got one!"

Owen gazed around the corner wall. A third police officer in full battle gear knelt in the street, grabbing onto his leg. "I'm not feeling so well," he said – his words almost drowned out by Greg's fading war whoop. The officer lay down in the street.

"Come on! Get up! Keep moving rookie!" The officer next to Owen screamed. The officer next to Owen tried to stand up and move from behind the police car, but another shot caromed off the bullet proof window leaving a telltale spider web crack in its place.

Owen took in the entire street scene. A little girl lay prone next to the sidewalk with school books scattered all around. Papers floated in the breeze. A pink hair ribbon drifted across her cheek. Owen could see her face with her eyes peacefully closed. He noticed her foot move. The little girl let out a moan. He should help her. Frozen with fear, he couldn't move.

Not far away faces peeked out from bushes and trees. From at least one a silver pistol barrel glinted in the sun. Greg gleefully pummeled another youth. Beginning to empathize with Blaise's hell, Owen scooted down behind the brick corner – his eyes squeezed shut. He retreated to the defensive shroud of a scarlet blanket … hoping, praying that it would all stop. Concentrating on the protective symbols lining the steel mill wall, he whispered a prayer for the child in the street.

Another smacking sound of a gunshot rang out – sounding just like the smack on his mother's face. Owen cowered behind the walls of his own jungle, his childhood bedroom. "Are you drinking again?" _Smack_. "It's not even dinner time!" Owen huddled behind his bedroom door, squeezing his stuffed lion for bravery. "It's just a glass of wine." Owen wished he could defend his mother. He should help her. "A glass? More like half a bottle. I bet that priest was here again, too!" But his father was so much stronger than him. What could he do? He'd need a bat … or maybe a broomstick.

A familiar voice, carried in the wind cried out from the street. "Stop, please this is our home!" Her voice dragged Owen out of his cocoon; restoring his awareness to Camas Street. He had to look, to try to understand the grace and courage.

Owen once again gazed around the corner. The pretty girl from the library stood between the girl in the street and the shooters, begging for a reprieve. Her back was to Owen, but he recognized her just the same. She yelled "Stop!" once more. A shot rang out. Gabriella grabbed her shoulder and collapsed to the ground. In that instant, even the shooters seemed to know they had gone too far. Or maybe it was the two new police cruisers who arrived to block the other end of the street. Silence was broken by the wounded wail of one of the victims, then by the piercing scream of an ambulance siren.

The nearby police officer glanced around the protection of his car trunk. When no shots were returned, he ran out to help his fellow officer. He waved the ambulance crews over when he confirmed the area was clear.

Owen gathered his will for one last glance at the carnage. The two girls lay in the street while the paramedics wheeled out the stretchers. The large black officer barked out directions to newly arrived officers at the other end of the street. Blaise remained on the ground, abducted by his jungle hell.

With a moment of anxious apprehension, Owen was finally able to gather his courage to move. He headed back to the protective safety of the steel mill. He had no idea his own complicity in the slaughter. He was as guilty as the gang members engaging in the war. He might as well have pulled the trigger.

**Tony Sacco**

The shooting stopped, Tony dashed out to the bodies in the street. Blood drained from Jesse's left thigh. His eyes were still open. "What do you think you were doing, you stupid shit?" Tony asked with an anger that disguised his worry.

Jesse struggled to talk. He grimaced in pain, with his fingers pressed around his thigh. "I'm sorry," he said. "I won't do it again."

"Just be quiet. Let me think." Crouching one knee, Tony pulled out a scarf and tied it securely around Jesse's upper thigh. He cried out to the ambulance crew, "Hurry it up, will you?" Tony picked up Jesse's hand. "How are you doing?"

"It must be pretty bad," he answered with a grunt. "I'm cold – really cold." Jesse let loose a hacking cough. "I'm thirsty, too. Could you get me something to drink?"

"I'll get you some water." Tony grabbed his canteen out of his cruiser front seat and a crimson wool blanket out of the trunk. He carried them both to his friend. Draping the blanket over Jesse, he unscrewed the canteen lid. With his hand behind Jesse's neck for stability, he trickled the water into his lips. Jesse sputtered with the sudden rush of fluid – having difficulty swallowing. One crew was already hauling the limp for of the little girl onto the stretcher. The other girl was sitting up holding her useless left arm against her chest.

"That tastes good," Jesse said with some of the water dribbling down his chin. "That's enough for now." Tony laid Jesse's head back down on the asphalt. "I think I'll go to sleep." The last sentence came out a little mumbled. Jesse's lips were turning blue.

"Dammit. Come on, will you?" he screamed to the second ambulance crew arriving with their stretcher. Tony moved away as they shifted the junior police officer onto a body board. One attendant put pressure on the wound while the second connected an IV. _They're not fast enough!_

Roberto approached Tony with one of the gang members in cuffs. The youth's face was banged and bruised. "Will he be okay?" Roberto indicated to the ambulance with Jesse.

"I don't know," Tony said. "I'm going to follow the ambulance. You have things under control here?" Roberto nodded. Tony tossed his gear into the trunk and headed off in his cruiser.

**Aileen Sacco**

The wait was unnerving. Gunshot victims, Lord knows how many. Aileen paced the sterile trauma center with several other members of the staff. Quiet tension permeated the air. Amy Ott, the head nurse, gave her a weak smile of commiseration. She checked the shiny operating implements one more time. They hadn't moved since three minutes ago.

The automatic doors slid open and the ambulance crew wheeled the gurney directly to the operating room – an unconscious nine-year-old girl with a gunshot wound through the stomach. The bullet lodged in her hip. The ambulance crew explained the diagnostic information to Dr. Schmidt. Monitoring cables and a manual oxygen mask were already connected. The EMT carried the IV bag connected through her elbow providing life-extending saline and Ringers lactate solution. But the solution couldn't replace the lost blood; it couldn't carry oxygen.

With the help of the EMT, each of them grabbed a section of the bed sheet from the underneath the child – A sheet already soaked in blood. On the count of three they simultaneously heaved the little girl onto the operating table. Commands flew between the doctors and the nurses as they measured her vital signs. Amy cut away the clothing and prepped the girl for surgery. She spread the eggplant colored disinfectant solution over the wound and covered the surrounding area with sterile dressings. The anesthesiologist replaced the manual breathing balloon with the ventilator and injected anesthetic through the IV tube.

Aileen connected monitoring equipment to her chest. The heartbeat was unsteady and shallow – 16 bpm; blood pressure 60 over 40; temperature 97.6; breathing shallow; pupils dilated and unresponsive. These were not good signs.

Then she took a sample of the blood and blotted four drops on the SeraFoilTM blood type analysis card. Her blood type was O-negative. Grabbing the telephone in the ER, she contacted the hospital's blood depository. "I'm sorry honey," the woman on the other end of the line said. "We're all out of O-negative. We used the last of it two days ago during a heart attack surgery. I'm still waiting on a replacement from the blood bank. It should have arrived by now."

"Dammit, I'm in the ER. We shouldn't have to wait. We need it now!" Aileen glanced at the surgeon for instructions.

"Shouldn'ts got nuthin' to do with it, honey," said the voice on the line.

Aileen slammed down the phone. "Get it directly from the blood bank. Tell them to rush it," the surgeon's assistant ordered as if Aileen didn't understand the only alternative.

Aileen picked up the phone and dialed the blood bank. "Transpacific Plasma Center," the voice answered from the other end.

"This is Mercy Hospital. Could you send over some O-negative blood via courier? We need some for an emergency patient, stat." The plasma center didn't respond. "Hello," Aileen said, "is someone there? I need blood for a patient."

"I heard you," the exasperated voice on the line answered. "I've been telling you guys all week that we don't have any O-negative blood. Nobody in the county has any. It was stolen in the robbery. The O-positive is gone, too. If you need other types we have some."

"The patient needs O-negative. What is she supposed to do? Wait until you have some?"

"Look, we've been begging on the radio for donors ... we have a blood drive scheduled for later this week at the shopping mall … what else would you have us do?"

"Nothing. You've done enough," Aileen called angrily as she slammed down the receiver. She couldn't agree. They knew for over a week that they did not have this blood type. They should have treated like a crisis rather than just a setback at the office. Now this little girl was paying for the lack of urgency. Aileen turned to address the surgeon, "Doctor, there is no blood available for the patient."

Aghast, Amy Ott paused in her assistance, "What'll we do?"

The doctor paused in his work. "We watch her die." He returned to the surgery. The bullet was out. He asked his assistant for the materials for sutures. "But not yet."

Her work done for this patient, Aileen cleaned up and left the operating room to see if any more victims arrived. A second gurney wheeled up with a young police officer. It was someone from Tony's unit – Jesse Corrle, a rookie. The officer face under the breathing mask was pale. A familiar red wetness covered his sheet. To Aileen's relief Tony followed the gurney into the operating room. "You're okay. Thank God!" Aileen said. "What's the story on this one?"

"Gunshot wound in the leg. The bullet passed through, but it looks like it clipped the femoral artery. I tied a tourniquet to slow the bleeding, but he lost a lot of blood." The ambulance driver updated Dr. Webb on his condition.

"Do you have any idea what his blood type is?" Aileen asked knowing the police department kept this information on file.

"O-positive," Tony answered.

"It's a bad day for O's. I hope we have enough. Any idea how many patients we will be receiving?"

"I didn't stick around to count. I would bet on at least five, maybe seven." It could be worse. "It looks like gang wars have made it to Pueblo." Tony looked down at the patient. "He was being foolish. I should've been able to stop him. He was trying to be a hero."

Aileen followed the gurney into the second trauma center. The walls were thin. While prepping the second OR, she overheard the muffled sounds of the care given to the little girl. The high pitch solitary tone of the heart monitor penetrated the walls. She flat-lined. Doctor Schmidt ordered the crash cart. Aileen jumped when she heard the telltale thwack of the defibrillator discharging.

Rapt with attention at the sounds next door, the entire staff had to be called back to the care of Officer Corrle by Dr. Webb. This new patient needed their attention.

The second team repeated the same emergency procedures as the first one. Corrle grimaced when they transferred him to the operating table. That was a good sign. Another nurse gathered Jesse's vital statistics. Aileen confirmed his blood type. The depository held two pints of O-positive which Aileen hoped would be enough. She had to cutaway at the straps of the vest to remove it and followed with cutting away his shirt and undershirt. She attached the heart monitor's to his chest. She cut away the pant leg freeing the wound.

The flurry of professional activity continued next door. She overheard Dr. Schmidt ordered 2 cc's of epinephrine. But you can't restart a heart when there is nothing to pump. _ Concentrate … on Corrle_, Aileen ordered herself.

The two units of blood arrived from the depository … O-positive, the most common blood type. There were five to seven victims and they only had two units. She connected the bag up to Jesse's arm above the wrist allowing the blood to flow into his veins. The anesthesiologist put Jesse under. When the doctor was ready, Aileen cutaway Jesse's tourniquet and the blood flowed freely.

After more than an hour in surgery, Jesse was still hanging on. The bleeding was stopped, but he was weak. Two units of blood were not enough to keep him stable. Tired she exited the trauma center. After cleaning up, Aileen found her husband in the waiting room. "How's he doing?" Tony asked.

Aileen caught site of Dr. Schmidt informing a family of their daughter's death. The father was stoic, but the mother was in tears. Gabriella stood with the parents with her left arm in a sling. Aileen recognized her from church this past weekend. She spoke during the homily about the shelter. _A-positive … she was lucky_. Three other gang members were shot dead at the scene. Another two wounds were superficial and cared for at the hospital.

"He's doing better than the little girl. There's just not enough blood available." She shook her head at the thought. The theft at the plasma center seemed senseless, and it came with such a cost. "He's going to have a rough night. He may not make it."

"I'm O-positive," Tony offered. "Take some of my blood. Give him an old-fashioned transfusion."

Aileen laughed at the idea. "We can't use your blood, Tony."

"Why not?"

"You're contaminated. You've been exposed to HIV."

Tony was dumbfounded at the logic. "You think he would rather die?"

Aileen considered his offer. "I'll check with the doctor to see what he thinks," Aileen offered. Fifteen minutes later, Tony was strapped up in the OR and precious blood flowed from Tony into Jesse.

"We're in this together now, buddy." Tony whispered to the unconscious rookie.

**Jane**

Tyro, Selkie's pet guinea pig, rattled the metal wire door with his teeth trying to escape some phantom apparition. Finally his heart gave out, overtaken by the poison. _He's 1 ½ pounds. It took about a gram of belladonna. My father is at least 180 pounds. _Jane was always good with figures_._

Her father sat at the Kitchen table waiting for Jane to serve him his daily herbal drink. "I think I'll take Selkie to the campground this weekend. Can you watch the store for me?"

_I'm washed up baggage, but Selkie's twelve - perfect for the disgusting, old lecher._ "Sure, Dad. I'll watch the store." _I remember when I was your little princess_. _Those days are gone. _ "Enjoy your drink."

He gulped the red, pulpy drink, "It's a little bitter. Why is there so much?"

"The papaya was overripe. I added horsetail to cover the taste," Jane gave a noncommittal shrug. "I guess I wasn't successful. Drink up. You need your nutrition."

xXx

Jane started awake to the sound of someone rapping on her door. She began to focus – she was in her living room – watching television. _How could I fall asleep?_ A strange furry-faced man speaking in a deep, raspy voice asked for "Catherine". _That can't be right. What's wrong with his nose? _A new episode of "Beauty and the Beast" was showing. Ron Perlman in his distinguished lion costume was beautiful. Jane wished all of her dreams involved a debonair beast to sweep her off her feet instead of her father. The door rattled again.

Jane switched off the television and turned on the lights. She scurried down the interior stairs to the back door entrance. Rufus was outside cradling Selkie in his arms. She unlocked the door and let them in. "She's bleeding pretty heavily. I think we should take her to the hospital," Rufus said. Blood covered his sport jacket.

"No," Jane protested. "I don't have insurance; I can't afford that. Take her upstairs. I'll treat her myself."

She let Rufus lead the way carrying Selkie up the stairs to their apartment. He laid her down on the sofa. He had wrapped her sweatshirt around her otherwise bare arm. "I found her passed out at her campsite. She has a large gash in her arm. Take her to the hospital. I'll pay for it."

"No." Jane repeated. "They'll think I did it. They'll take her away." Jane examined the injury. It was a deep gouge, but the wound was beginning to clot. There was no way they could pretend this one was a piercing. "We'll have to cover the scar with a tattoo – maybe a serpent." _The hospital would be an awful mistake_.

From the first aid cabinet Jane grabbed gauze and medical tape and vial with spirit of hartshorn and eucalyptus. "I don't think we'll need to sew it. A dressing should be sufficient." She dabbed the wound with the gauze. "Here hold this against the cut. Apply heavy pressure."

For a mayor-elect, he was good at taking orders. Jane gathered a warm pail of water and wash rags and carried them to Selkie's side. She dabbed the wet rags on the gash removing lose gravel and dirt. Her eyes were moist with tears as she provided care. _Selkie why do you do this to yourself?_

Throughout the process Rufus told a rambling story of how he found her. Jane barely heard him. "I'll have to go back tomorrow to get her tent and other things. I thought I should bring her home. It looks like you were right to be worried."

_Of course I was right._ "Thank you for getting her."

"I feel awful about this," Rufus said. "When your father disappeared, I promised myself I would look after you girls. I've just been so wrapped up in the election."

With the bleeding finally stopped, Jane inspected the wound. The gash ran all the way from her wrist to her elbow. "I have a picture she drew. She was holding onto it tightly. I'll go get it." Rufus left the apartment down the back staircase.

Jane finished dressing the wound with fresh gauze and bound it tightly with tape. She left Selkie on the sofa for a minute to get her a glass of juice. Selkie needed to replenish her fluids; juice should help.

Rufus returned with the oil drawing in hand and showed it to Jane. Jane reached up and touched the picture. Blood dripped from his fingers and a dark shadow crossed his face. "Owen," Jane muttered. "It's appropriate. He has a dark soul." It was time to wake her.

Jane grabbed the hartshorn. She waved it under Selkie's nose and cracked the vial. Selkie started awake from the sharp ammonia odor. "Where am I?"

"You're okay, little angel. You're home," Jane said. She picked up the glass of juice. "Here you should drink something."

"Owen," Selkie said. "I need to talk to Owen." She raised her good hand to her forehead. "My head really hurts."

"Later," Jane said. Rufus gave a quizzical look through his spectacles and pointed to the picture. Jane nodded to Rufus. To Selkie she said, "You need to rest now. As soon as you feel better we'll try to find him."

As Selkie sat up, she became pale and woozy like she was a little lightheaded. She picked up the glass and sipped at the juice.

Jane motioned for Rufus to join her in the Kitchen. "Thanks for everything Rufus. I think she's out of the woods." Jane fingered Rufus formerly white suit jacket. "If you want I can toss that for you."

"No, thanks. I'll see if Catherine can do anything with it." Rufus chuckled. "If not, then I'll always have a new rag. Who is this Owen?"

"Nobody. He's just another lost soul who needs some help. We see a lot of those at the store."

"Are you sure there is nothing else I can do for you two?"

Jane shook her head. "You've done plenty. I'll take care of her for the rest of the night. With Selkie home, I'm whole again."

Rufus said his goodbye's to Selkie and Jane leaving down the back steps. With her head spinning, Selkie lay back down on the sofa. Jane pulled a cushioned chair next to her and sat down holding Selkie's hand gently in her own. Selkie opened her eyes and gazed at her sister. "Jane."

"Yes, Selkie."

"Did our father love us?"

Embarrassed Jane averted her eyes, staring off into the Kitchen. "Yes, he did. Sometimes I think he loved us a little too much."

"Then why didn't he ever come home?"

Jane leaned forward and kissed Selkie on her forehead. "I'm sure he had his reasons. Don't worry about him anymore. You have me now."

"Okay," she said, but a tear revealed the deception. Losing the battle with wakefulness, she closed her eyes and settled into the cushions. Before she lost the battle completely, she whispered, "We have to find Owen. He needs our help."

Jane rubbed Selkie's forehead as she drifted off to sleep. She couldn't consider Owen important. She was beginning to wonder about that boy. _Why did he want that belladonna?_ She would try to talk sense into Selkie tomorrow. Tonight she needed to sleep.

**Owen**

Owen returned back to the steel mill to Abby's sleepy form curled up in her bin. After the excitement of the shooting, he felt like he was overdosing on speed or something. He bounced around the room. Abby had been up while he was gone. _During the daytime?_ There were new symbols. The drawings were completed around all four interior walls of the steel mill.

Mentally he replayed all of the possible actions he could have taken to help Greg or Blaise or Gabriella or the police. But he didn't do any of that. He just sat there, retreating to his shell of cowardice. He could have been a hero, or he could have been dead. Neither prospect would have helped Abby. Any notoriety he received would draw attention to his situation. In some way, he was glad for his instinct to retreat to his protective shell.

Looking inside the furnace Owen inspected the garbage bag dangling from the inside of the door. The now empty bag had held the blood stores in the insulated tower. It was all gone in a matter of weeks; he thought it would last all winter. He didn't blame Abby - he still hadn't understood the cost.

Owen peeled the blankets back to study Abby's face. Her cheek rested on her folded hands. Her hair had become knotted from the twisting and turning in her sleep. While curled up sleeping, Abby looked like a small child - much less than her twelve years of age. She needed his protection ... his care. A quiet rumbling purr flowed with each slow breath. During these times, Abby kept her demons at bay. She was at peace.

He needed an activity to keep himself occupied until nightfall._ Her hair … I'll take care of her hair._ He grabbed a soup can and Blaise's comb from his belongings. After filling the can with cold water he dipped the comb. With gentle care, at least at first, he started to tease out the knots. Each strand fell into its silky place, resting on Abby's shoulder. But with adrenaline screaming, he could not maintain the glacial patience needed to untangle the strands.

Several strands were bound in a labyrinthine, Gordian tangle. Following a few unsuccessful attempts, Owen gave one sharp tug which jerked her head to the side. _Oops!_ Owen immediately sensed her anger. The quiet purr grew to a thundering rumble. Teeth poked from her mouth pushing her lips aside and blisters erupted from her skin. In a flash, her eyelids cracked opened revealing her glowing bright blue irises.

Startled Owen stepped back and took a few calming breaths. "Come back to me, Abby," he whispered. His heart raced while his emotions ebbed. He had marveled at her change many times before, but he never grew accustomed to it. His tranquility surged into Abby, helping to quiet her. Abby struggled, even in her sleep. She closed her eyes and the rumble quieted back to a steady purr. The skin returned to its creamy, unbroken veil with a luminous pink glow. In his excited state, Owen was tempted to test the metamorphosis again; to try combing through her hair. He thought better of it, and restored the blanket over Abby's face.

Owen still needed to find something to distract his restless energy. He began to study the high ceiling over the main mill floor. It was dark up there. Several chain hoists extended from the reinforced center beam. To the side he studied twitching bats tucked in the eaves. Along the wall, starting about ten feet off the ground, rails for a ladder were cemented into the cinder block. He had never noticed them before. Climbing them would give him a much better view of the bat family. His curious energy got the better of him. _And there are ladders in the basement._

Owen straggled down to the basement door he had discovered a week earlier. The solid metal door creaked on opening. The little bit of dusky light from the entry contended against the tremendous darkness. Little feet skittered away. He considered making another torch, but he decided to gives his eyes a chance to adjust. Darkness was his home.

On the far side of the musty basement, Owen noticed a little flicker of light. He walked toward it to try to make it out better. It came from a circular opening around the base of the furnace. The fire brick was separated from the concrete floor above – the gap acted as an insulator from the warmth. He saw the light from his own fire from the main mill floor upstairs. The furnace had a large metal door, like an ash dump.

Out of curiosity, Owen pulled the door toward him. It was large enough to crawl through. The scraping sound echoed up the chimney walls. There wasn't even a latch. The dwindling sunlight illuminated the forge. At this level it was at least nine feet across and covered in a sooty film of dust. In the very center lay the partially burned reminder of Abby's first Pueblo victim. Disgusted, he slammed the gateway closed.

If he remembered correctly, the ladders rested along the far right wall shrouded in darkness. Owen stumbled over one of the tools in the floor and crashed into the stack of ladders. He found an A-frame ladder that seemed around the correct length. With both hands, he held onto the top step and dragged the ladder away from the pile. Made out of wood it was heavy, but he was able to drag it out of the basement, up the stairs and rested it on the production floor.

With a little effort he moved some of the heavy crucibles that were in the way. They were on wheels. Once the motion started, it was more difficult to stop them than it was to keep them going. Then he set up the ladder on the main floor under the built in hand rails.

He scampered up the ladder. The top was still a few feet below the lowest rail, but he could reach it. Carefully, one step at a time, Owen climbed up the handrails. Near the top, he stopped and studied the family of bats. There were five of them in all, hanging upside-down and wrapped tightly in their leathery wings. They were smaller than he expected, little larger than mice. Right above his head a bat twitched its nose, irritated by the arousal of dust. The bat hung upside down from a small handrail. This close, Owen figured out that the handrail was part of a larger hatch that led to the roof top.

The bat flickered her gossamer wings and abandoned her roost. Within moments the rest of the family joined her. Swooping, fluttering their paths crisscrossed - somehow avoiding collisions with each other. They found a tiny opening in the building and they left in search for their nighttime snack. Beneath him, Owen sensed Abby stirring. Finally, she was awake.

"Abby," Owen called as he scampered down the railings nearly slipping in his haste. "What do you want to do tonight?"

"Nothing," Abby replied. "I just want to stay here."

Owen dropped down to the floor, his blood still flowing with adrenaline. The excitement of the shooting seared through his body. "I can't stay here tonight, Abby." He was in constant motion, walking around Abby. "Maybe we can try the zoo tonight. It's clear. I bet it's beautiful."

"No. We need to stay here." Abby's eyes glanced to the walls. "I'm not going anywhere. Try to understand."

He felt her hesitation … her fear. _Another bad dream, maybe_? Owen pointed to the hatch in the ceiling. "What about the roof? Can we try that?"

"Okay," she said with a sleepy smile.

"Yes!" Owen jumped with excitement. "Let's go!" Owen grabbed his warm coat and gloves. Out of habit, he donned it inside out. Then he darted up the ladder. Abby passed him, using only the creases in the cinder block as finger holds. _Showoff_, Owen thought. But he was too excited to care. Nestled in the eaves, Abby waited for him next to the hatch. A minute later, Owen caught up to Abby's lofty perch. "My gloves slowed me down," he explained.

The door had two latches on the side opposite the hinge. Owen unclasped those latches and shoved hard against the door with his shoulder. The pain exploded from his shoulder down his back. Rust held the door shut. Stars circled his vision – but these were the wrong kind of stars. He shook free from the stupor when he realized how high above the ground he was hanging. Positioning his feet one rung higher, Owen pressed his shoulder against the hatch. Pushing with his full strength, the door flung open. Thrilled with his success he said, "Got it!" to the smiling Abby holding onto the wall next to him. _That was foolish_, he thought. _Abby could have sprung this door in a heartbeat_.

Clambering out on the sloped roof exposed a whole new world. The clear sky revealed thousands of stars. The bright, nearly-full moon glowed over the top of the steel mill. Bucket conveyors ran from the train tracks to silos above the roof. _They must have transferred coke and iron ore from trains. _ Concrete foundations were all that remained of once massive cranes needed to convey finished heavy steel ingots to their next destination. Behind him, rising more than a hundred feet above him the foundry brick-lined chimney pointed toward the heavens ... nearly reaching the stars.

Abby crawled through the hatch after Owen. The reflection of the waxing gibbous moon glistened in Abby's bright green eyes. Her joy was contagious. The clear night sky flooded with the brilliant radiance of stars. "Look there's the big dipper," Owen said pointing to the low northern sky.

Abby looked thrilled to share this with Owen. "Tell me some others," she pleaded.

"Uh, okay," Owen said. Owen loved to stare at the stars, but he wasn't that confident about the constellations. This was one of those times he wished he had turned the telescope toward the sky instead of his neighbors. Upside down and above the big dipper he located another familiar group. "Right on top of the big dipper is the little dipper. Some people call them the big bear and little bear. The star at the end of the tail is the North Star. You can always find your way home with that one."

"Do you know any more?"

"I think weaving between the two is Draco the dragon and the W-shape" Owen pointed toward the Eastern sky, "is Cassiopeia." Abby was holding tight to his arms. He looked into her brilliant knowing eyes and came to a sudden realization. "You know all of these don't you?"

"I still like to hear them from you. Cassiopeia was the queen of Egypt. Do you know the story?" Abby asked. Owen shook his head. "Would you like to?"

"Sure." The both sat down on the ledge of the mill roof. Their feet dangled over the parking lot, at least forty feet in the air. Owen took off his gloves and set them beside him. The roof top was freezing, but he was taken by the desire to hold onto Abby's hand. In the cold night air, her skin was soft and comforting.

"Cassiopeia and her husband, Cepheus, he's the constellation that looks like the upside-down house shape above the little dipper, bragged that their daughter Andromeda was more beautiful than the Nereids. Andromeda is the constellation next to Cassiopeia. She always looked like a sailboat to me." Abby pointed further East. "Even though Andromeda was very beautiful, the comparison made Poseidon jealous and angry. He demanded that the King and Queen sacrifice Andromeda by chaining her to a rock. He sent his serpent, Cetus to destroy her. You can't see Cetus now, but he's just below the horizon under Pisces."

"That sounds terrible," Owen said. Abby delighted in sharing this story with him. Her twelve year old smile blazed with enthusiasm. The tale was as old as the Greek legends and her eyes emitted that ancient wisdom. In these moments, Owen thought of her as much more than merely twelve years old.

"It's not as bad as you think, because Andromeda had Perseus. He should be right next to Andromeda and beneath Cassiopeia," Abby said. She pointed to a cluster of stars in the northeast. It looked like a random pattern of glowing dots. Owen couldn't make anything out of it, but he would take her word for it. "Perseus loved Andromeda and he saved her from the mighty serpent."

"We're they married?" Owen wondered. Abby knew hundreds of these romantic tales, and they usually ended well.

"Of course they were, but these legends are never that simple. Andromeda was promised to her uncle, Phineus – and he was none too happy about the wedding. He showed up to challenge the bridegroom. Perseus turned him to stone with a gorgon's head."

"Then they all lived happily ever after, right?" Abby nodded. Her smile shimmered with amusement at the story and her eyes glistened in the bright moonlight. Heaven sent, she reflected the enchantment of the twinkling stars. "You're more beautiful than Andromeda. My little moon shadow," Owen said. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. The fragrant scent of flowery cinnamon clung to her hair. "I could be your Perseus, if you would have me."

"Too bad there's never a good gorgon's head around when you need one," Abby joked.

"I'm serious, Abby. I want you to turn me into someone just like you." Owen was pouring out his heart and soul. He had been considering this idea for weeks. "I don't want to grow old without you."

"No." Abby pulled away. Owen sensed her anger boiling through his own nerves. "You don't know what you are asking," she said.

"I do. I've thought it over – I'm eighteen, while you remain twelve. That already feels a little strange. Next year I'll turn nineteen, then twenty. I know I'll need to drink blood ... and maybe even murder somebody. I know that I will be relegated to darkness. But I can't bear the thought of watching you drift away. Where is the joy in growing old when you're not coming along? "

"You couldn't hurt a fly," Abby chuckled. "You … murder someone?"

Her words stung. He hit the old man with a tire iron and he would slay the serpent or die trying. To be with Abby he would sacrifice all of that and more. He could be stronger than Perseus.

"You don't understand." Abby grew bitter and angry. Her eyes moistened and her lip quivered while she spoke. "You may know what you are asking of yourself, but you don't know what you are asking of me. There are worse things than becoming a murderer. You want me to become a monster? Like my uncle? How dare you?"

Angrily, Abby stood up and stormed over to the Western edge of the roof. Her bare feet plinked on the metal roof. She stared over the city.

Owen pushed himself up from his seated position, but he wasn't sure what to do from there. He couldn't understand. _What was worse than being a murderer?_ Should he follow Abby or go back down the ladder into the mill? Paralyzed by uncertainty he stood in one spot – rooted in his cowardice – staring in Abby's direction. Finally, he surrendered to the urge and followed Abby to the roof edge.

Together they gazed over the Western side. The lifeless Arkansas River rushed by underneath them, roaring over its spillways. The railway bridge was silent … across the river a car honked at a wayward driver and crossed over the Fourth Street Bridge. A cedar tree stood alone on the island in the middle of the river, its branches twisting with the wind. In the distance, Owen listened to a strange animal bark. He wondered what it was.

"Hyenas," Abby said deciphering Owen's thoughts. "Even the gods are laughing at us. It was just a stupid story. Andromeda wasn't real."

Owen looked at Abby's blank expression. He was not accustomed to Abby being so solemn, so reflective. A tear slid down her cheek. "You're right. I don't know what I am asking of you. I'm sorry. I'll think about it, until I really understand."

"Don't," Abby said. Before she could say anymore, Owen silenced her by leaning in and brushing his lips against hers. He placed his arm softly around her neck and pulled her close. Abby opened her lips and accepted Owen's advances. The softness felt right. It felt more than right - it satisfied a need that Owen had been denying. He welcomed the sweet, coppery blood taste on her tongue. With his other hand he reached up and brushed the tear away from her cheek.

The fluid in his hand felt warm and sticky. He pulled away from the embrace. Red fluid streamed down her cheeks from her eyes. He was terrified by the sight. "What is this Abby?" He rubbed his fingers together trying to understand. "Is this blood? What's happening?"

"I don't know!" Abby said. She grabbed her abdomen and cried a loud wailing moan. "I don't know. Please help me!"

Owen did not know what to do. Abby groaned again as he lifted her over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. He strode purposefully over the rooftop to the hatch. He maneuvered himself and Abby through the opening – ensuring that he didn't bump her head. Down the rails he carried her, more carefully than across the roof – one hand on Abby and the other on the rails. Each rail, he dropped the hand down quickly, nearly losing his grip. At least Abby wasn't heavy.

The top of the ladder sat a few feet below the lowermost rail. Owen grasped the bottom rail and dangled his feet toward the ladder. With Abby draped over his shoulder and his feet kicking and flailing, he knocked the ladder over. The floor was at least ten feet below him. _There is nothing more to think about now._

He let go of the bottom rung and allowed himself to crash to the floor. Owen twisted his ankle and banged his knee on the concrete. He was more worried about Abby. He limped over to the mattress and laid her carefully down. Terrifying red tears were weeping out of her eyes. Pale, she was shaking in fear. Owen grabbed the red wool blanket from Abby's bin. He swaddled her in the blanket and used the corner to wipe the blood away from her face.

He cradled this precious angel, his beautiful Andromeda, while her sobs subsided, and she fell asleep. Owen lay down next to her and held her tight, but he couldn't relax.

November 19, 1988

**Owen**

The blood – it must be the blood. Abby's body was rejecting it. Like the Arkansas River, the supplies from the blood bank were dead. She couldn't tolerate it.

And now, so was Teodilina Escalante. Her smile haunted Owen from the front of the daily newspaper. _Such a pretty name for a pretty girl_. She needed the blood that was poison for Abby. Owen couldn't do anything right. He couldn't die for Abby and he couldn't kill for her. But every step he took resulted in death anyway. He will be forever tormented by that little girl.

Owen knew they weren't going to be able to steal blood from a blood bank anymore. The price was too high. Worse yet, after draining their supply of the toxic blood, Abby was going to need to eat again.


	14. Chapter 14

Note: Chapters 14 & 15 were once Chapter 9

Chapter 14

Thanks for Nuthin'

November 24, 1988 – Thanksgiving

**Owen**

Drainage seeped painfully from her eyes. Her skin had become sallow and wrinkled, like it was deflated. Eyes sunk into ashen sockets. Soaked in blood, the mattress matched the shade of Abby's crimson blanket. He stayed with her through the night hoping to ease her pain. It was no use. He failed at even providing a simple comfort.

His food, cash and supplies running low, Owen should be bumming for more, but he knew where he could get the money. Somebody owed him. And he was going to collect. He had to force himself to be stronger than he dared.

Leaving the steel mill, Owen found the streets emptier today than they had been in weeks. It was Thanksgiving. In the years since he thought about the holiday, he had not had much opportunity for thanks. _I can do this; I'll fight back._

_What about the other beggars? They still need to eat._ As it turned out, the homeless shelter reopened in time for the big day. _Something to be thankful for – less competition_. _Now, maybe I can scrounge food from the trash, but not today. _He had more pressing business.

Each of the past few days, Owen made his way to the alley behind the Asian restaurant and waited. The salty smell of boiling soy sauce toyed with his covetous appetite. A brisk wind whistled through the alley goading the hanging laundry into a dance. It looked like the same clothing that dangled from the fire escape several weeks earlier. Owen remembered wondering whether it might fit Abby. _Can't check it now. Might miss my opportunity._

Pacing in the alley, he checked the security of the tire iron. It rested hidden within his coat sleeve keeping his elbow locked straight. Abby's insult confirmed his weakness. Mentally, Owen punished himself. _Couldn't hurt a fly?_ Maybe not a fly, but he could get his money back. _Maybe they will come through today. _With the patience of a spider, Owen waited for his prey to enter his web.

**Billy Scott**

"You mean to tell me you went to that pagan idol worship?" Billy's mother, wearing her pumpkin apron and waving a spatula, demanded to know. A loud marching band played "Hang On Sloopy" on the television with welcoming odors of turkey and sausage filling the air. His mother had started preparing her secret stuffing recipe as soon as she rose this morning.

"It's Gabriella's church. It's Catholic, mom, not pagan. She was giving a talk and asked me to watch."

"They pray to the dead. Tell me you didn't kneel to that piece of bread." She gave an exaggerated sigh. "They worship a wooden image for pity's sake!"

They've been having this argument all week. Billy never understood his mother's hatred of Catholics, as though they personally wronged her. He hadn't given religion much thought until he found himself seated next to Gabriella. The ceremony was different, more formal. But they used the same book. Billy sat through the entire mass last Sunday and could not remember anything that seemed wrong. _We eat bread, too. _Sitting in the pew pressed tightly against Gabriella felt about as right as it could get – and all in the name of religion. He could get used to that closeness.

"It's Christian, mom. They worship the same God we do."

His mother struck him across the cheek with the dirty spatula. "Don't ever say that! It is not the same God as ours. It's a satanic distortion of Christianity. They drink blood."

"Well I'm heading off to engage in more satanic activities then. The shelter is reopening for Thanksgiving, and I volunteered. Don't wait up for me." Billy threw on his brown aviator jacket, donned his Pueblo Dodgers ball cap, and stormed out of his house leaving the door wide open in anger. Letting the heat escape into the brisk fall weather was his revenge.

His father approached the front door as Billy walked down the front walk. "Do you think he'll be back for the game?" His father had his own priorities on Thanksgiving.

"I'm worried he won't be back for dinner, and your parents are coming. Girls, they're the real evil."

"You should know," his father replied as he shut the door isolating Billy from his family.

Several hours remained before he was expected at the shelter, and he wasn't going to waste it groveling to his parents. Since he started working and seeing Gabriella, he hadn't caught up with his high school friends. He found them right where he expected - hanging out on the wall at the Loaf 'n Jug. Kevin Stetler and Daniel Ison were passing time sharing a pack of Marlboro's when Billy strolled by. "How you guys doing?"

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with his presence. We've haven't seen you in a dick year. How's the job coming along?" Kevin asked. He wore his blue varsity jacket embroidered with the large letter "C" embroidered on it for Centennial High School.

Dan inhaled a long, James Dean style drag on his cigarette and ran his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. He was trying to look cool and failing miserably. "He has a girlfriend, now. I'm surprised he has time to stop by and visit us lowlifes."

"The job is going great," Billy chuckled. "And the girl is doing even better. How about you guys? What have you been up to?"

"We were just talking about last year's big game. Are you going tomorrow? Those Central guys are toast," Kevin said. Billy had honestly forgotten about the game played Thanksgiving weekend every year. Centennial High played Central in a heated city rivalry.

"Do you remember last year's game? That pass was sweet!" Kevin had been on the varsity team. The big play in the game was a halfback pass for a touchdown. Kevin was the halfback. "The way that ball arched down the field into the waiting arms of Dale. It was a beautiful sight to behold."

"Fabutastic – at least forty yards in the air," Daniel added as though he wasn't sitting in the stands with Billy. Kevin and Daniel rehashed the game, almost play by play, from last year. While they reminisced Billy was glad he had chosen to visit his friends. He was under no pressure because they didn't put any on themselves. With a paycheck and new friends, this was a past Billy had already outgrown. He did not care who won the game tomorrow; yet, these two guys couldn't forget who won last year. For today, he would revel in the stories. This may be his last visit to the wall.

"Billy, do you have any money on you?" Daniel asked completing his story.

"Aren't either of you guys working yet?"

"Why spoil all of this?" Daniel asked. Billy glanced down at the pocked parking lot, broken glass, and a brown slimy substance that had been congealing in the same spot for years. "So do you have any money or not?"

"I have a little."

"Great! We were thinking of getting a beer. " Assuming Billy was buying; Daniel leaped off his perch and headed to the rear of the convenience store. Billy considered objecting, but he hadn't seen his buddies in awhile. And he didn't want to be the spoil sport.

Around the back, Kevin banged on the solid white delivery door. They weren't old enough to purchase alcohol, but the manager was more than happy to look the other way when enough money was involved. "Do you guys want to try a can of Coors?" The manager asked them.

"Not that pisswater," Daniel complained. "My cousin says he pisses into the waterfall that they show in the commercials." Daniel and Kevin chuckled at the crass humor. "So it literally is pisswater. We'll take a can of Bud."

"Coming right up."

Billy handed over a ten dollar bill for the chilled can of which Kevin claimed possession. He pulled the tab and took a long slug. "Let me have some," Daniel cried. He licked the foam off his upper lip. "Outstanding!" They each took their share of the can alternating turns. The beer washed away the sour taste from the argument with his mother.

They wandered their normal path through the city weaving in and out through alleys and side streets. Traffic on the streets was very light for the city. A few kids rode by on their Schwins enjoying their day off from school.

"Where are we headed?" Billy asked.

Kevin took a sip from the can and handed it off to Billy. "We thought we'd check out a soccer tournament at Mineral Park. Daniel has his eyes set on a girl in the fifteen and under league."

"Sophomore bait," Daniel said with a little chuckle.

"I'm sure either of you would make a fine catch for a young girl," Billy chided. _Me, I'm aiming for grownups._

Daniel missed the sarcasm and nodded with a grin and a "you betcha."

"He's going to try to entice her to the dark side," Kevin kidded.

_The army might be a good choice._ He should check in with the recruiter on his day off next week. Jason was a great employer, but the army was a career. Billy would just look into it.

They spoke of their Thanksgiving plans. Daniel was looking forward to painful ringside seats at the burnt turkey sweepstakes. His mother had no idea how to prepare the multi-course meal. Kevin was destined for seats at the kids table with his young cousins.

"You guys could help at the shelter. It's opening up today," Billy offered. Kevin and Daniel looked at him like he had three heads.

A dog chased a cat down the next alley, and the three of them followed. The alley concentrated the breeze and blew the odor of Asian cooking their way. "I wonder if that dog makes an appearance on General Chow's menu." Daniel asked.

"Hey, look at that 'tard," Kevin said as they turned into the side street. "I think I remember him. And just when we needed more money."

Billy pondered how much time he had wasted with these idiots in high school. He was looking forward to spending his day with Gabriella. Maybe she would invite him for dinner with her family.

Within a singular, shuddering moment it all went wrong. The 'tard produced a metal rod from his coat sleeve. Kevin and Daniel scattered with the wind. Billy found himself sprawled on the ground. Stunned, glittering lights circled his eyes with a brilliance unfurled. "What did you do that for?" Billy asked. He pulled his hand away from his ear and was surprised that it was bloody.

The cold, compelling, maleficent voice answered, "I just want my money back."

**Aileen Sacco**

"C'mon let's go guys!" Aileen yelled to the family room while holding out Javier's jacket.

"I'm ready," Tony said jogging down the stairs. He wore his civvies today – Levi Jeans and a blindingly orange Bronco's sweatshirt. "Do you think we'll be back in time for the Cowboy's game? I would love to see them get slaughtered."

From the family room, Javier complained, "Aww mom. Do we have to go?" Javier lay in front of the television staring at the parade. "They're still showing the balloons … muy giantesco. Look, there's the pink panther!" Javier grinned pointing at the picture.

Aileen kneeled down next to him cradling his jacket in her hands, "Santa's next. He's the last one. Then we have to go. It will be good to get out of the house."

Javier's eyes sparkled with thoughts of Christmas. "I know he isn't real," he said, but he stayed to watch anyway. The magically decorated sleigh rolled along in front of the cameras while the announcers read another canned comment about Santa. Santa waved and preened for the camera. Aileen turned around and saw Tony gazing at the parade. _There is a little bit of magic left in the world._

"Now it's time to go," Aileen insisted as the final parade credits rolled. They headed out to aid the reopening of the homeless shelter. Perhaps it was pity, but she thought often of Isabel and her children, especially little Lazarus. With the reopening of the shelter she wanted to be there to lend support.

At the shelter, Gabriella, with her left arm in a sling, directed the show. She took charge organizing everybody into squadrons – appetizers, vegetables, meats, and deserts. Aileen thought there might be more food than they needed. Embellished with plastic red and green tablecloths, the dozens of tables were scattered throughout the cafeteria in preparation for the feast. Javier sorted through the scattered, broken toys while Tony stationed himself at the desert table. "Those aren't for you," Aileen reminded Tony. He furrowed his brow in mock irritation. For once the dreary odor of dismay was masked by the cinnamon smell of warm pumpkin pie. At least it smelled like home.

More than a dozen helpers stationed themselves behind their food stations. Surprised by the turnout of volunteers, Aileen asked Gabriella, "Is it always like this?"

Gabriella nodded, "On Thanksgiving it is. Then we get a steady dribble of the guilty between Thanksgiving and Christmas. After that, the help dries up."

When everything was ready, Gabriella opened the door. During the restoration somebody had scrawled the word "paradise" on the front door in black spray paint. Compared to living on the street, that sounded about right.

The line of diners snaked all the around St. Simeon's rectory. Many pushed shopping carts stacked with the entirety of their worldly belongings. The customers wound through the cafeteria line, heaping their food onto a sturdy Styrofoam plate. The quiet, but polite destitute paraded through the food line with a "Thank you," at each station. Their dirty, haggard look mesmerized Aileen with its fathomless despair. _Only one meal; how do they survive_? At the turkey and stuffing station, Aileen tried to warn them against taking too much, to save some for the others.

Gabriella flagged her off. They were hungry and had earned whatever they could handle.

After awhile Father Erasmus showed up, toured the cafeteria, and greeted the diners in a joyful maitre de fashion. He was greeted with ethereal acclaim; a local celebrity of sorts. When there seemed to be a full number of diners seated and in the line, Father led the group in a Thanksgiving blessing. Thanks for all those joining them in the holiday festivities.

Without warning, an angry disturbance burst through the front door. Those in line were irritated by someone pushing his way past them. A young man, with ball cap askew, stumbled into the room; blood dripping down his neck onto his leather jacket.

"Billy," Gabriella gasped. She ran over to him and helped him to a seat at a nearby table. "What happened?"

"I was mugged." This garnered the attention of all of the diners at the shelter. Nobody is robbed on Thanksgiving. Even they had principles.

Aileen grabbed a pile of paper napkins and hastened to Billy's side. She pulled his bloody hand away from his ear and compressed the napkins against the wound. "Do you have a first aid Owen?" Aileen asked. Gabriella nodded and ran off to get it. After checking in on the patient, Father Erasmus quelled the onlookers with a word and suggested they continue through the dining line. Having seen cases like Billy's many times before she put two fingers in front of Billy's eyes. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two … now stop treating me like I'm an idiot." Aileen ignored him and continued to ask him a list of questions. "What's your name? Do you know where you are? Where do you live? Did you lose consciousness? Do you feel dizzy?"

Billy was able to answer all of these questions. He was a little dizzy and his head hurt like he had been assaulted by John McClane. "Yippee ki yay." While she conducted the interrogation, Tony walked over and relieved her of pressing the napkins against his head. He said, "You should have gloves on. Let me handle this part. I have nothing to lose."

"You don't know you are sick." She reminded Tony, but smiled at his protective instincts.

Gabriella returned with the first aid Owen. Aileen removed the mini blue ice pack and smashed it against her knee. "I'm fine," Billy insisted. "I just need some aspirin and then I'll lie down for a little."

"You can't lie down!" Gabriella said. "You might have a concussion."

Aileen smiled at the folk remedy. You can lie down with a concussion, but she would prefer Billy stay with people. "I would rather he didn't lie down right now." Aileen said. "You sit right here for a few minutes and I will get my car to drive you to the hospital."

"Tell me what happened, kid. I'll call it in to the police station," Tony added.

"What? No. I don't need a hospital... and I don't need the police."

The ice stemmed the blood flow. Aileen pulled out some bandages and applied them to Billy's ear. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," Billy answered.

Aileen frowned with concern. "You can refuse medical treatment if you want, but you really should see a doctor. And today that means the emergency room." Billy shook his head. "A head injury is not something to take lightly." Most people would not resist the care. "We can contact your parents, if you want."

"No! Don't call my parents. This is nothing to get them worried about." Billy finally looked up from the ground. His face and jacket were covered in loose gravel. He focused on Aileen's face. "Who are you?" Billy asked. Then he spoke to Gabriella, "Who is she?"

For the first time, Aileen chuckled at the indignation, "That is a good sign if you are asking that question. I'm Aileen. I'm a nurse." She completed the bandage and stepped away. Billy's ear was completely covered in gauze.

Tony stepped in, "Now tell me what happened kid."

"Nothing. I was just mugged is all." Billy rubbed his hands through his hair and straightened out his ball cap. He was cobwebs were clearing, and he was becoming uncomfortable from the attention.

"Big guy, little guy, tall guy, short guy … you know the ones. Let's get started to narrow down his description."

"Billy, it's all right. You can tell us what happened." Gabriella suggested. "Who did this to you?"

"It was that guy you spoke to at the library … Kenny. He took over a hundred dollars from me. I told you he was dangerous." Tony started writing the information down, but Billy stopped him. "Put that away. I'm not pressing charges."

Gabriella was adamant. "He had no right to do this to you. Maybe they can stop him …. get your money back. We have to stop him from mugging someone else. You have to take a stand!"

"No … no charges. I'm just tired. Maybe I'll just get something to eat."

"Let's go get you cleaned up first," Gabriella said. She grasped his hand and led him into the kitchen. Aileen thought he would follow her anywhere.

**Owen**

_I did it, Abby. I did it. I got my money back. _But Owen wasn't very pleased. It felt a lot like stealing. Twenty dollars from that kid from the Goodwill store – no more than he always took from his mother, but more than was taken from him by those three boys. He didn't feel like taking the time to provide change. _I guess it was interest, just like a bank. _Why'd he have to hit him in the ear? Half the kid's ear fell to the ground. No it didn't – just blood. A river of blood trickled down his neck. Owen shook his head trying to force the memory out of his thoughts. _ I can't stand all the blood!_

As soon as he brandished the tire iron, two of the frightened little girls scampered away. The third gave a deer-in-the headlights look, making him the prefect target. _Why are all of those girls screaming? There's a body in the lake, under the ice._ It was just a glancing blow; the boy dodged before Owen struck. "What did you do that for?" Billy said rising up from the ground.

Owen quivered. "I just want my money back." It was that simple, really. _They took it from me; I took it back._ So why does it feel like stealing? He was lying to himself and to Billy. He wanted more than his money back. He wanted revenge, and he wanted to prove something to Abby.

With the money in hand he could now buy what he needed – bleach, soap, toothpaste, and, most importantly, toilet paper. But he couldn't buy anything anywhere. Everything was closed. _Thanksgiving – who the hell expected that_? Owen thought angrily. I've been waiting for this kid all week. _Kid, that's a laugh. He might even be older than me. One thing's for sure, I can never return the Goodwill store. _

With his money in hand, Owen tried the back of the grocery store. The parking lot was nearly empty with a skeleton crew manning the store. The unattended, locked Dumpster was ripe for the picking. He strode over like he belonged and wedged the point of the tire iron into the padlock. As hard as he tugged on the tire iron, the lock didn't give. _Damn Masterlock! _A wasted trip; maybe Abby could open it some night. _Not until after she recovered._

Returning after his fruitless search, Owen found Abby curled up on the mattress. The same place he left her ... she was getting worse. Wailing loud enough to wake the dead, her transformation was progressing. Abby was almost gone. Within the next few nights, Owen needed to go hunting again. . He did not have much to be thankful for.

**Aileen Sacco**

Several hours later, Tony and Aileen were finishing up their meal and beginning their cleanup. Javier chased Lazarus and Caleb around the cafeteria in a winsome game of tag. Caleb's joyful barrel laugh was contagious. It seemed to lighten the mood for everyone. Lazarus and Javier shared a coughing spell_. Something in common - inadequate lung capacity_.

Even with one arm in a sling, Gabriella doted on Billy – getting him everything he needed. Aileen and Tony helped with the cleanup. While wiping down tables and tossing garbage, Aileen took the chance to ask Tony a question in confidence, "What do you think happened to the boy? Have you ever known anyone to be so dodgy in reporting a crime?"

"Sure, all the time," Tony answered. He pondered the question for a few moments. "Whenever they have something to hide."

"What do you think he could be hiding? He was pretty banged up." A purplish mass surrounded the bandage on his cheek.

"I don't know. It could be anything. For all I know we are going to find this Kenny in a gutter somewhere. And he might even deserve it." Tony rubbed his brow. Thinking … his wheels were turning. The noticed Gabriella rise to refill Billy's drink. "Let me check on something."

Tony walked over to Billy. He pulled his wallet out and withdrew a twenty. Aileen couldn't hear what they were talking about, but she saw Billy take out his wallet, glance inside, and shake his head.

Tony returned to Aileen. "What was that all about?"

"I asked him if he had change for a twenty." Tony studied the ceiling trying to put the pieces together. "For someone who was robbed he had plenty of cash in his wallet." He smiled throwing up his arms in defeat. "This is too much for me to think about right now. I'm no detective. Let's get Javier and skeedaddle. Maybe we can catch the second half of the game." He looked at his wristwatch and shook his head. "Or maybe I can catch the wrap-up."

Aileen collected Javier from his shenanigans. "Aww, Mom. Do we have to leave already?"

"Yes, we have to go now." Aileen was glad for Javier's innocent joy. Others avoided victims of AIDS like they were Typhoid Mary. Javier didn't consider the possibility that Lazarus was any different than he was. "I'm glad you're having such a good time playing, but we have to go. Lazarus will back at school in a few weeks."

"I know. I can't wait. He's gonna take all the attention away from me." Maybe Javier wasn't as innocent as she assumed.

On their way back to the car, Tony affectionately held Aileen's hand just like when they were teenagers. "Even thought we missed the game, I'm glad we came," he said. "It was a good family Thanksgiving activity. At least the Broncos weren't playing. Then I might have been a little irritated."

"Thanks for coming." She placed her other arm around Javier's shoulder. "Both of you. I really needed this. It's good for the soul. Maybe after Javier is in bed, we can play a little detective game ourselves."

Javier grimaced at the idea, "Cut it out," he complained. "That's gross."

Tony laughed. "First you need to cook a turkey. It's Thanksgiving. I need some leftovers for the weekend."

November 27, 1988

**Owen**

Early evening was clear and cold, with a crisp late autumn chill. The dreads were here once again. Owen strode down the street with a harsh determination, but without a plan. Finding victims horrified him, but he needed to be strong. Abby depended on him. _I need to figure out some method for victims, some strategy_, but Owen didn't want to think about it. Every situation was different. Planning would require thinking about the victims as people. Instead, he wound up winging it every time.

For the last few days, he watched helplessly as Abby deteriorated. Thanksgiving weekend meant parking lot soccer on Friday and Saturday. The nosy kid didn't join them, but Owen stayed protectively with Abby just the same. Maybe Owen's threats worked to scare him away. It wasn't until Sunday night that Owen felt safe to search for a meal.

He decided not to carry his tire iron with him. It was awkward; caught, it would be difficult to explain. How could he use it? He could not imagine carrying an unconscious body through the streets of Pueblo. If he needed the weapon, he would return to get it.

The enormous red sun descended over the horizon of the dusty sky. Clouds reflected back its pink glow. On another day, Owen might consider this beautiful. Today it was a dream from another world. Back in their shelter, the homeless would prove difficult victims to find. But there were plenty of people around – in fact too many. He wandered past a building on goat hill where a young boy and girl watched him longingly from the transom of a rundown apartment. Their dirty faces and vacant expressions mirrored their poverty. Perhaps he'll check back here later, when there were fewer people around. _Abby preferred children; they tasted sweeter_. He could be hard when needed; like fire-forged steel.

Owen roamed through the streets for hours. The sun set; it was finally night time – his time. The late fall air ushered in a chilly breeze. As he crossed the intersection at D Street, a car honked its horn and swerved, nearly striking Owen. "Are you blind you idiot?" he yelled through his open window.

"Can you give me a lift?" Owen asked. The driver could take him back to the mill. He would be perfect. But he ignored Owen's request and drove off with angry, smelly exhaust drifting behind him.

As the night ebbed, Owen's confidence and determination drained with it. He found himself back in the center of Pueblo where they wandered on that first night in the city. D Street bustled with lively activity. Women lined the street, peddling their wares in scant clothes. Abby kidded Owen about the girls their first night, but she had misunderstood his fascination. Owen once again found himself drawn to the preacher. "I have spit in the face of evil and told him he has no power over me!" The preacher yelled cradling his bible in his hand.

Owen stood watching as the preacher reigned supreme over the panoramic street scene. Owen studied him for several minutes impressed by his passion. A willowy wisp of a man with balding hair, he was bent over, weighed down by the years of struggle. With a dignified, aristocratic flair, a litany of biblical aphorisms tumbled out. His diatribe fractured as Owen approached. Owen had questions that maybe he could answer. This man faced evil and resisted his power. "Is there such a thing as evil?" Owen asked searching for some answer to his worldly dilemma's.

The preacher stumbled over his onslaught, stuttering in disbelief at the question. Or perhaps it was just surprise that somebody addressed him. "Of course there is such a thing as evil. I confront it every day." Finally, someone who understood what Owen faced.

"What does evil look like?" Owen could not believe that evil appeared in the form of a twelve-year-old girl.

"Temptation offered by the serpent is evil." The preacher pointed across the street. "There is the face of evil; wanton debauchery. I see it every day. Homosexuality, drugs, licentiousness – these are the face of evil. If you are seduced by temptation, God will punish you and strike you down."

"Them?" Owen said pointing across the street in disbelief. "They're evil?" He gazed across the street at the women. Three of them, a blond and two brunettes, all looked young and intriguing, and far from evil.

"We have put the Lord their God to the test and he has found us wanting. The pale horse destroys with the power of the plague. They are being led by Satan in a path to hell. The Good Lord has the keys to life and death. He has passed judgment and destroyed them."

Owen was irritated with the preacher's words. "You've never seen evil," Owen replied angrily. "You don't even know what it looks like." He looked across the street. One of the girls glanced in his direction with a predatory, come hither smile. "I think I know more about evil than you," Owen insisted. _But I should investigate just to be sure._ Owen waited for a car to drive past, and then he crossed D Street to discover what the fuss was all about.

The preacher's words followed him across the street, "Evil is real! God will rein fire and brimstone in the form of a withering illness upon those who submit to the evil. Do not be tempted!"

Jumping up on the curb, Owen approached the girl beckoning him; the blond, of course. She wore a fake fur jacket and a short red skirt which accentuated her hips. Her jaws furiously mauled a piece of gum that did little to diminish her testosterone-appealing smile. Precariously balanced on six inch high spiked heels, she leaned into Owen with her arm around his neck pressing her breasts firmly against his chest. "What can I help you with today, Sugar?" she asked. "I'm Destiny."

This close, the facade was obvious. Underneath the epidemic layer makeup, her face showed the years of wear and tear. Cat like wrinkles flowed from her eyes and acne scars dotted her cheeks. When he glanced at her from across the street, Owen thought they might be teenagers like him. This one was really old – at least thirty. He scouted for the other two to see if either of them were more attractive, but they wandered away to allow Destiny the chance to move in for the conquest.

Noticing his wayward glimpse, she reached her lips toward his and pressed them onto Owen's. Covered by the spearmint flavored gum, Owen tasted a smoky hint of tobacco. Susceptible to her charms, he found himself placing his hands around her waist, resting his fingers on her hips; her muscles flexed under his touch. She tilted her head to the side to allow the kiss to deepen. Unconsciously, Owen cocked his head to the opposite angle. Her lips rolled in a slow, sensual motion. He enjoyed the softness and moved his lips in time with hers. Mind-numbing. Owen escaped to an erotic realm without intelligence.

She placed both arms around his neck and ran her fingers gently up and down Owen's back. A tingle traveled up his spine, mirroring her touch. After a few gentle strokes, Owen felt her hands through his thick coat pressed firmly on his rear. She pulled him close and began to slowly rotate her hips. Enjoying the experience a little too much, Owen grew warm and flush. Destiny held on tight. _And this was evil? Perhaps a little._

Her strong, flexible tongue wriggled in and out, tickling Owen's tongue. Destiny playfully pressed her piece of gum into his mouth. Startled Owen leaped away breaking the spell along with her grip. He spit out the chewing gum onto the sidewalk. "That's disgusting."

Destiny cackled at his discomfort. "You're a fresh one. I think I'm going to like you." With one hand she continued to hold onto his arm and pulled it tight into her chest. The other hand intertwined her fingers with his. "No more freebies. If you're interested, we can go the alley or your car and have a lot of fun." Her bashful smile contradicted the flirtatiousness; she glanced up at Owen demurely through her thick eyelashes.

"I don't have a car. We can go to my place," Owen suggested. "It's nearby."

"I'd love to. That will be sixty dollars," she said teasing his coat lapel.

"I have it back at my place. I'll give it to you there."

Destiny pulled her hand away from Owen's arm and played with his beard. "Well, sweetie, why don't you go get the money and come on back," she said continuing her playful smile. "I'll wait … maybe."

His pride rapidly deflated. The money – it always comes down to the money. There was no way he was going to be able to collect sixty dollars by this evening. Maybe he could steal it. He should have taken all of Billy's money. "I'll get the money." _Somewhere_. He left D Street empty and dejected. He turned and saw Destiny leaning against an open window of a stopped car. The predator opened the door for her next victim.

Owen drifted by the shuttered convention center, not sure where to turn to next. The waning gibbous moon glowed bright on the horizon, marking the time of the passing evening. It reminded Owen of the picture of the Earth rising over the moon taken from the Apollo eight moonshot. _Abby would enjoy this night. So bright. _The streets were emptier than he expected. A few cars were parked, but Owen did not find any purses or other items left inside. He turned up Court Street hoping to find something there. Voices argued loudly from a parking lot. He decided to avoid them and turned down Seventh Street. It sounded like some sort of drug deal. _Maybe I should've brought the tire iron_, he thought. _One of those guys may be dead tonight anyway._

He hadn't been able to decide on any better plan when a ratty old Datsun B210 pulled up next to him. The balding man with manicured eyebrows and lustrous skin reached over to the passenger seat, his gold-chain necklace dangling, and rolled down the window. "Hey kid, are you eighteen?"

Owen nodded.

"Would you like to make a hundred dollars?"

"Sure."

"Then get in." The guy opened the door and motioned for Owen to join him. Had Owen been thinking more clearly, he probably would have thought better of this financial windfall. After all, he was on the prowl to try to find a meal for Abby. But he had spent most of his life after Los Alamos in small towns, never facing any real threat. A hundred dollars was a hundred dollars. It had been a long time since he had seen that sort of money.

But he had learned one thing from tonight's experience. Leaning through the window he said, "Let me see the money."

The man chuckled rubbing his hand through his remaining slicked hair. _I knew it, he doesn't have it. This was too good to be true._ He leaned over toward the driver's side window and pulled out his wallet. He removed a hundred dollar bill and waved it in Owen's direction. "Now get in."

Owen jumped in the car. The old car door rattled as Owen slammed it shut. "The name is Charlie." He reached over with his right hand as he turned the wheel with his left. Owen shook it.

"I'm Kenny," he answered just to be safe.

With his tires squealing, Charlie took a complete U-turn in the middle of the street. They just missed on oncoming car. Charlie laughed. "Now we just need to find some place private." Owen noticed the road from beneath his feet through rusted out floor boards. He was going to have to watch his step.

"Why not try behind the steel mill?" Owen suggested.

"The old mill? That's a good idea, Lonnie. You're a smart kid."

_Not a kid; not anymore._


	15. Chapter 15

Note: Chapters 14 & 15 were once Chapter 9

Chapter 15

Serpent Slayer

**Owen**

Charlie carefully maneuvered his car through the alley to the steel mill parking lot and turned off the ignition. The engine shuttered and then finally came to a stop with a loud bang. The Arkansas River roared by from the other side of the railroad tracks. "We could go inside the mill, if you want. I think it's open," Owen suggested.

Charlie jumped out of his seat, leaving the keys in the ignition. Owen followed from his side of the car, hopeful that it could be this easy. "No, the back seat will be fine," Charlie said. He opened the door to his back seat. "C'mon get in."

Owen was distracted by the thoughts of ways to convince him to head inside of the mill. _There has to be some way to convince him. We're so close_. He climbed in the backseat and Charlie slid in after. The seat covering was torn revealing foam rubber stained with age.

Charlie looked closely at Owen really seeing him for the first time. "Wow, you are pretty young. Are you sure you're eighteen?"

"Yeah."

Charlie slid over next to Owen in the back seat and placed his hand on his knee. "Who the hell am I kidding? I don't really care. You say you're eighteen, you're eighteen." Charlie closed his eyes and leaned in close to Owen. His aftershave smelled of a mild cinnamon odor mixed with sweat. Owen really wasn't sure what to expect, but he wasn't expecting this. It was like he was in France or something.

Owen groaned when Charlie's lips grazed his own. He ricocheted against the passenger side door. Owen wiped his hands on his lips. "What was that? You kissed me." He struggled against the latch. It wouldn't open; like the child lock was engaged.

"Guilty as charged." Charlie laughed and swayed his hands in front of his body. "What did you expect for your hundred dollars?"

_Not this, _Owen thought._ Just about anything but this._

Charlie continued, "I remember when I was just like you – innocent of the ways of the world. You are too darn cute; I just had to kiss you. Sorry about not giving you a warning." Charlie paused trying to gauge Owen's response. "Well, do you still want the money?"

Owen considered it. He needed the money. If he couldn't convince Charlie to enter the factory, then he could purchase a prostitute. He didn't have a better idea, and Abby needed to eat. He took a deep breath and agreed with Charlie.

"I think I have something that will help calm your nerves – on the house."

Charlie stood up and reached over to the glove compartment of the front seat. He found a spoon, thick rubber tube and lighter. Then he pulled out a Ziploc bag from his pocket – it contained a white powder. He dipped the spoon in the bag and handed it to Owen. "Hang onto this and don't sneeze, okay?" He returned the baggie to his pants pocket and flicked his Bic. He waved it under the spoon, heating the powder.

"What is it?" Owen asked.

"My own special home blend; nothing too strong; it'll distract you."

Owen tried to appraise his truthfulness from his expression, but Charlie concentrated on the flame. _What the hell? Could be from the Blazing Crescent._ It might help him get through this nightmare. _How bad could it be?_

Charlie spoke while he was working to ease the tension. "You can eat this stuff or inhale it. That'll work, but it takes a long time … maybe an hour. It's quicker if you inject it." The powder melted into a viscous, amber liquid that bubbled and crackled in the heat. He withdrew a hypodermic needle from his shirt pocket. It was sealed in a paper and plastic cover. "Always use a fresh one of these if you can get it."

Owen shrugged, "Okay." Charlie seemed to know what he was doing.

Charlie tore open the sealed package and removed the needle. He placed the tip into the spoon and drew back on the plunger drawing the amber fluid into the syringe. He took the spoon from Owen's hand and tossed it on the front seat. "You're going to have to remove your coat." Owen did as Charlie suggested draping his coat over the headrest of the front seat. He was still wearing the same dirty, plain T-shirt since before his arrival in Pueblo. With a hundred dollars, maybe he could afford a new one.

Charlie picked up the rubber band. "Hold out your arm." He tied the thick yellowish rubber band around Owen's upper arm. "If you inject it in the muscle it will work in five to ten minutes … but the vein is perfect. In almost no time you'll forget your own name. Now, pump your fist open and closed a few times." As Owen did this, Charlie flicked a finger on his arm. A dark purple vein distended from the inside of his elbow. "That will do nicely," Charlie said. He placed the needle against the vein and pushed, injecting a small amount of the fluid into Owen's arm.

He undid the rubber band. "My turn," he said chuckling at the idea.

Owen was no longer paying attention. The changes flowed through him very quickly. He started feeling lightheaded and dizzy. Little balls of light floated in front of his eyes. Red, yellow, green … he tried to reach out and touch them, but there was nothing there. He licked his tongue a few times. He tasted cheese … macaroni and cheese, but he smelled burning cedar. The smell was sharp. A circus clown laughed next to him, enjoying Owen's chemical journey.

Owen closed his eyes and held onto his head, trying to steady it. It wasn't working. He was on a ship, rolling in high seas. A quiet scurrying noise capered around the floor boards. He opened his eyes and there were rats everywhere, big ones, running around on the bottom of the car. A bat squeaked in the ceiling and floated out the window. The clown … no it's not a clown, it was Charlie who said, "What's your name?"

"Owen."

Charlie laughed hysterically, like the hyenas from the zoo. "See, Kenny, I told you that you would forget your name." The fuzziness continued. Charlie moved closer to him and pressed his lips against Owen's once again. _Why do they always taste like tobacco?_ Owen suffered a gut-tingling chill as Charlie placed his hand on the inside of his thigh. Owen closed his eyes and thought of Abby.

Her skin was flawless, alabaster pure - the placid surface of a lake - hiding the evil just beneath. She gazed at Owen with ancient longing through her emerald, effervescent eyes. As Owen gently caressed her cheeks, the skin ignited from his touch. It blistered, turned ashen, and crumbled in a drifting flurry of gray-white flakes. The ashes flew through the open roof of the car and floated toward the stars. One by one the twinkling specs of ash molded themselves into a constellation on the celestial canvas, pushing the beautiful Andromeda to the side. Abby was housed in the heavens where she belonged.

Beside Owen, her skeletal remains writhed in agony while continuing to kiss him. He tasted the rancid flavor of death and decay. The taint burned his tongue and he pulled away from the kiss in horror. "Are you all right, Kenny?" he heard.

Owen nodded, but he wasn't sure. His chest heaved. He was panting in fear of the memory. He tried to collect his thoughts, calm himself, but his heart was racing. His rib cage flexed from the strength of his rapidly beating heart. He tugged his swollen tongue away from the parched roof of his mouth to speak. "I'm thirsty," he said.

"That's all right," Charlie answered. "I can help you with that." He pulled down his pants, exposing himself. Reaching his hand around Owen's neck, he curled his fingers in Owen's matted hair. A viper writhed up Charlie's abdomen.

This was his chance to be strong. Owen was Perseus, and he battled the serpent; for Abby; just like he promised.

**Tony**

With Javier safely stowed at the mother-in-law's, Tony and Aileen enjoyed the dining at the Vincenza's Fine Italian Eatery. Tony devoured his lasagna dinner. Each swallow provoked a spiritual experience. _Divine, case closed._

They finally got to enjoy their night out with his comrade in arms and his fiancée, Lorena Johnson. Roberto had been trying to arrange this for weeks, Thanksgiving weekend was the first opportunity for both of them. Lorena, with a recent MBA in hand, worked at a local brokerage house. Having transferred first to an office in Denver, then to an assistant manager position at the recently opened office in Pueblo, she was a mover and shaker in Pueblo's financial community. Decked out in a professional suit with conservative jewelry, she was dressed the part.

At first, the conversation was stilted and quiet. Tony and Roberto enjoyed catching up … football, the excitement of the gang shootout from the other week, Jesse Corrle was recovering while convalescing restfully at home. The 'girls' just crunched on their salad, as though football wasn't stimulating conversation. Lorena turned lively when the conversation tilted to her family back east. With her lilting, southern accent she revealed she had a beautiful younger sister back in Atlanta and missed her dearly. She can't wait to see her again.

With dinner complete, Lorena and Aileen rose to visit the ladies room. _What do they do in there? _With them gone, Roberto asked, "What do you think?"

"Well, she seems very nice, but I'm not sure how to say this," Tony said. He hesitated with the rest of the comment. Then continued in a whisper, "She's black."

Stunned for a second, Roberto wasn't sure how to react. The he let out a loud guffaw, "You ignore the fact that she's eight months pregnant and point out that she's black. Do you think I missed that little detail?" Tony shrugged with uncertainty. Roberto continued, "I'm black … so it's okay, right?"

"Really? I thought you were Samoan, like Tatupu on the Patriots." Tony laughed at his blunder along with Roberto.

"Are you kidding, man? I don't have enough vowels in my name to be Samoan. My mother is Apache. My father was originally from South Carolina, but he worked in the Colorado copper mines until they closed. Haven't I ever told you this before?"

"No," Tony chuckled at his misunderstanding. "Are you sure you aren't Samoan? Because, you definitely look like it."

Roberto shook his head, laughing. "You are an idiot … you know that, right? It's a wonder you haven't made detective yet."

"So what are you going to do about the baby? Lorena looks like she's about to burst."

"We thought we'd get married. Nothing special really. With you and Aileen as witnesses next weekend, if you're available."

"Sure, as long as the whole family can come, we'll be there." The waiter arrived with the menu selection for desert. "No thanks," Tony said. "I'm about to burst. Just bring the check." He looked at Roberto. "My treat … in celebration." He lifted up his glass to toast just as Lorena and Aileen returned laughing.

"I guess you heard the news," Aileen said.

An hour later, they were headed back to the house for another private game of detective. _What did she want him to search for now? _ It didn't matter … it was going to be fun. Before they got inside, Tony heard a loud crack from across the river like a gunshot. He ignored it. He had seen enough death this last week. Someone else can take care of it. There was urgent detective work he needed to focus on right now in his bedroom.

**Owen**

The task complete, Owen leaned back in the car seat. The colored glowing lights were still floating in front of him, but they were duller and moved a little slower. He hardly noticed the few remaining rats. He wiped off his chin. _Gross_. He didn't even want to think about it.

He thought he earned the money. The customer looked satisfied … panting heavily, perspiring, leaning back on the bench seat. Maybe he could collect his money and find Destiny with what's left of the night. "Well you are no Hugo," Charlie said. Owen wasn't really sure whether to take that as a complaint or a compliment. Charlie continued, "It was still a lot of fun. Thanks for that. It's been years. I miss him."

"Sure," Owen said. _Now … the money?_

"What did you think for your first time?"

"It was kind of like raw oysters." Slimy and salty, he hated oysters. His gut wavered in wretchedness. He had to quell the battle in his stomach – the profound urge to vomit. "Do you have anything to drink?" he asked. He was sure he had asked before. He needed something just to cover the taste before he ruined Charlie's moment.

His eyes glistened with tears. "Hugo … would you like to tell me about Hugo?" Charlie hiked up his pants, leaving his shirt tail askew.

"Not really." _Please, dear God, no. Why is he getting all mopey on me now? _Owen tried to stay patient with him. He seemed upset. "I'm in kind of a hurry," Owen said expectantly.

Charlie started crying. _It must be a side effect of the drugs._ "He was beautiful, you remind me of him – courageous and strong …, so full of life."

"I'm nothing like that."

"No, really; perhaps you're not as lively as he was but you came along for the ride – no questions asked. That was pretty courageous."

_I won't be repeating that mistake._

Charlie continued, his eyes glassy and his voice distant, "I wish I had died first. Hugo would know how to live. He held on for two years, but he was a shadow when he died … a reflection of a memory. Now, I guess, it's my turn." The tears flowed freely. Charlie tried, but failed to stem the flow with his shirtsleeve. "I don't have his grace."

"What are you talking about? You'll be fine."

Charlie pulled his shirt collar down to reveal an eggplant colored bruise. It was raised around the edges and weeping in the center. Owen had never seen anything like this wound, and he had seen a fair share of wounds. "It doesn't look so bad. What is it?"

"It's death," Charlie said. "The death that Hugo spent his last two years fighting. I can't fight it like he did." He turned his head to look at Owen.

"Are you sick?" Owen asked. Charlie nodded through his tears. Owen pieced two and two together. "Did you just make me sick?"

"Maybe," Charlie shrugged nonchalantly. "You never know – the luck of the draw."

Owen wasn't sure if he was still feeling the effects of the drug. Finally he decided that he had heard the truth. "Are you kidding me? Why did you do that to me?" Owen's anger sprung forth. He whipped his feet out and kicked Charlie in the thigh. He repeatedly pummeled Charlie with the full force of his strength. Charlie just sat there taking his punishment. After a few minutes, Owen ceased his battering.

"I think you might have hurt me," Charlie said with a surprised look. "I guess I deserve it. What can I say? – I wanted to have the experience one more time ... It's just not the same with latex." Owen continued to stare in disbelief. "I'm sorry about infecting you. You probably have ten years or more before you get sick, if you get sick … which you probably won't. They may even have treatments by then." Charlie bent forward while he talked, straining and routing around under the seat in front of him. Maybe he was trying to chase away the rats. "It's not like your life was worth much anyway."

_I guess it was worth about a hundred dollars_, Owen thought. _ I don't even have the money, yet_.

After a few moments of searching under the seat, Charlie's eyes lit up when he found something. He retreated back in his seat gripping a black nine millimeter pistol. _Holy shit, this is it! _All those terrible Jack the Ripper stories rose to the forefront of Owen's thoughts._ He's not going to pay up. Charlie is going to take me out right now._

"You can keep the money," Owen said trying to save his life, tugging once again at the useless passenger side door latch.

It took a few moments for Charlie to recognize Owen's discomfort with the weapon. "Relax," he said. "I'll give you the money." He set the pistol roughly on his lap and pulled the hundred dollar bill out of his wallet. Owen pocketed the money wondering if it was even real. Then Charlie tossed the wallet in Owen's direction. "Here, keep it all."

Charlie playfully lifted the pistol once again and held it up, studying it. "Such a simple thing," he said. "You know, I really miss Hugo. He was a fun, strange guy. But he was the better of us." He turned back over to gather in Owen's bewildered expression. "Do you think there is anything after this life? Some peaceful verdant pastures … anything in the great beyond?"

"I don't know."

"Good answer. Me neither. I'll let you know." Charlie flicked off the safety and rested the barrel of the pistol under his chin. "Thanks, Kenny. Spend it wisely and pray for me."

_I'll pray for you all right, you miserable pig. The one who got me sick. I'll pray you never see the light of day. _In his anger and frustration, he nearly missed it. Then it dawned on Owen what Charlie was about to do. "No, stop!" Owen shouted. "Don't do it here. Come into the mill."

Charlie ignored his cries, leaned his head back, and pulled the trigger. Blinded by the lightning flash Owen looked away. The air exploded with its acrid smell. The bullet shattered the rear window taking all of Charlie's thoughts and dreams with it.

When Owen was nine he took one of the last rides of the night, solo, on the giant Ferris wheel at the New Mexico state fair – the Goliath. Toward the end, the ride stopped at the very pinnacle letting off some of the passengers below him. The people milling around the ride were indistinguishable from the bright lights of the fair and the carnival noise. Owen was separate from everyone else – a creature trapped between heaven and earth. Tonight he felt that same transcendent separation from reality. The outline of the desert mountains were clear under the stars. He stood up in the carriage and reached toward the stars. For a brief moment he almost touched the face of God.

The carriage jolted forward, forcing Owen to his seat and his heart to his throat. As he descended, the carriage began to shudder like the fender of his dad's old truck. His bones rattled violently. His skin could barely contain the shaking. The clatter of bone against bone was deafening. His muscles ached under the strain. Finally, he came to a crashing, screeching halt in the back seat of the Datsun B-210.

He glanced around at his surroundings. A spattering mixture of primal colors glimmered around the shattered hole – baby's breath covered in blood. Silence, bone wearying silence.

Owen lifted a piece of pulpous slime from his cheek and twirled it between his fingers. His nerves danced as he examined the stringy morsel. _One my mother's past cooking masterpieces – rice in spaghetti sauce. _ His father was none too happy with that meal. The food stuck to the sliding glass door after his father tossed it angrily across the dinette. "I'll clean it up, Mom," Owen offered as she wept silently into her open palms.

_Is that__ hair stuck to the rice?_ It covered his hands … and his sleeves, too. He tested it on the tip of his tongue. _That's weird. It tastes like Abby_. Owen's scream cascaded through his thoughts. He held out his arms and studied them. M_y hands are covered with blood! _

He sat there, stunned in disbelief for what seemed to be hours. The moon hadn't moved that far across the sky, it couldn't have been that long. His skin tingled as sensation slowly returned. Charlie sat slumped forward in his seat. His skull peeled back like the bell of a trumpet. The pistol lay on the floor boards of the back seat.

_Abby, I need to help Abby._ Struggling to get himself back together, his mind was numb. He wasn't thinking clearly. He had the money – the plan worked. He pushed Charlie out of the way, reached over his body, and tested the other rear door. It opened! He grabbed his coat and climbed over the body out the door. _I'm not thinking clearly._ _Would a street walker notice that I have blood and brain on my sleeves?_ _Probably_. _ Wait – what the hell am I thinking?__ I don't need a prostitute. _ He had a fresh blood supply right here; right outside the steel mill. Charlie.

Owen couldn't understand why this death seemed to affect him so much. He had been around death for so many years. As he recovered from the sudden stillness it slowly dawned on him. The suicide was the problem. Even the old man in the alley found enough strength to fight death – not Charlie.

Owen had to gather his wits. Charlie was gone, but he still had a task to complete. He pulled Charlie out of the car by his shoulders. Just as he had a few weeks earlier, Owen dragged him across the parking lot. He was lighter than the old man, and it was a shorter distance. By the time he reached the mill his rib was aching. It was a good ache, less painful than before. His ribs were healing.

Glowing with the dusky moonlight, the mill was strangely quiet. The door was open, slightly ajar. He opened it fully and called through, "Abby ... I could use some help." A slow, mournful growl answered his plea. With a sigh, Owen carried the corpse up the stairs, and then dragged him across to the center of the mill. Where was she? "Abby!" he cried once again.

"Who's there? Owen, is that you?" An ancient cry growled across the mill floor like a low rolling fog. "I can't feel you. Where are you, Owen?"

Something was missing. Tickling the back of his thoughts, Owen couldn't sense Abby's presence. With his mind clouded by the drugs, he didn't know what she was feeling or thinking. For the first time in years he was free of that connection. He faced a moment of unrestrained freedom that he found completely unsettling. It wasn't freedom at all – he was empty; like half a person.

"Yeah, it's me." A spectral ghost glided away from the soffit struggling to regain her human form. Her hair grew out, her skin thickened and grew darker, and her wings tucked back behind her back. Her nostrils flared with excitement over the smell of blood … the victim in Owen's arms.

"What happened? I thought I had lost you." She asked, with her low, gravelly voice.

Startled by the descending apparition, Owen didn't answer. He should have expected this shape. He had seen her like this before. But he had always sensed it before he saw her. He didn't have the stirring sensation of angry contempt that accompanied the wraith. With disorienting cobalt blue eyes swallowing Owen in its luster, she surged forward and grabbed the carcass in her hand. She pulled it roughly off of Owen's shoulder, knocking him forcefully to the ground. The drugs masked his pain. Extending her wings, she flew back to her shadowy roost, leaving Owen stranded with his doubt and uncertainty.

Not even sure where she went, he felt the need to clean himself. He went to the bathroom carrying one of the soup cans. Poured a little bit of bleach into the can and filled the remainder with water. Using it as a mouthwash, he swished it between his cheeks. His eyes watered as his cheeks and throat burned. He could take it – for a few minutes. Fire can purify as well as destroy. When blisters began to form on his lips, he spit out the concoction. Flooding his mouth with water couldn't quiet the flame.

After that he scrubbed his arms and face until they were rubbed raw. He had to remove every remnant of blood. He found flecks of flesh in his ears and hair. _Get it off,_ he pleaded to himself as he scoured every inch of his head. He studied his skin for any remnants of Charlie, pulling his skin taught to examine the back of his neck. When finally satisfied that he was clean, he returned to the main area.

Outside the bathroom, Owen heard a slow _slurp, slurp, slurp_ from the shadows. Abby wasn't finished yet. Not sure what to do next, Owen fell into his familiar routine of cleanup duty. The car remaining in the parking lot would draw unwanted attention toward the steel mill. He had to move it. He left the mill to the disturbing noise of Abby savoring her prey.

He shut the rear door to the Datsun and climbed in behind the wheel in the front seat. He caressed it, running his bare hands over the vinyl nubs. He wished he could keep the car, but the bloodstains and the hole in the window were a problem that he could not solve. The key chain dangled from the ignition where Charlie left them. Now … if only he ever had the chance to learn how to drive. Owen rotated the key restoring the engine's roar. _This won't be so tough. _ At least it had an automatic transmission.

He placed the car in reverse and lifted his foot off of the brake. Pressing on the accelerator caused the engine to roar, but no movement. _ Now what? The emergency brake. _ Owen pulled the lever freeing the brake and the car started to roll in reverse. He spun the wheel to turn the car. His first attempt caused the car to go in the opposite direction that he wanted. With the car moving so slowly, he quickly adjusted. There were a lot of mirrors.

The car stopped moving when it rattled against the chain link fence. No problem – Owen wanted to change the direction anyway. With his foot on the brake, he placed the lever into "D" and started toward the alley exit. He tested the accelerator to provide a little speed. As though the narcotics weren't enough, adrenaline roared through his veins. Aiming for the alley entrance, the front end of the car weaved back and forth. Owen winced when the driver side mirror crashed against the brick wall. The narrow alley coerced the car into the correct direction.

In the bleak darkness of the alley, Owen could almost hear the old man yelling, "Get out of my alley!" _Lights... where is that switch?_ Owen found the knob and illuminated the alley tunnel. The old man was gone. The car guided itself along the wall, scraping against the brick the entire way. A more dreadful screech than fingernails scratching on a chalkboard, but it kept him on the path.

At the end of the alley, Owen turned onto the street, joining the few late night cars. He fit right in; some of them were weaving almost as much as he was. But he was driving much slower. Trying to speed up a little, he almost hit a parked car. He continued at a sedate fifteen miles per hour – fast enough for his first try. Staying in lane was difficult enough.

A car raced up on him from behind. Right on top of Owen's bumper, he flashed his bright lights several times. Owen considered speeding up. _Why won't he pass me? _ It was a nerve racking dilemma – speed up and risk hitting something or continue to irritate the driver behind him. Drugs surging through his veins magnified his anxiety. The car tailing him honked his horn a few times. Owen decided to turn off onto a smaller, side street. The other car drove away, with tires squealing.

The side street was quiet and empty. It circled around past a closed shopping mall. The street came to a metal barrier and on the other side were the railroad tracks, then the Arkansas River. The cedar tree on the small island at the center of the river danced in the shadow of the bright gibbous moon. Owen drove around the barrier and over the train tracks. At this spot, on the north end of the river, there were seven sets of tracks before they merged into one track after the train yard.

He looked both ways, not a train was in sight. He depressed the gas pedal and drove over each rail, one by one, having just a little too much fun with the juddering motion. The nose of the car edged over the concrete bank of the river. He placed the car in neutral. Before exiting, he grabbed the implements on the passenger seat, shoved them in his coat pocket. Jumping out of the car he slammed the door shut.

He strolled around to the back, rubbing his hand wistfully over the fresh dents. Owen had a little trouble saying goodbye to the car after his first drive – it wasn't so bad. He thought he was getting pretty good at driving in one night. Behind the trunk, he braced his feet against a train track and nudged it into the river. As it dropped over the embankment, Owen thought – _maybe I should have grabbed the pistol from the backseat. _

The task complete, Owen strolled between the railroad tracks and river bank. A few minutes later, crawling through a gap in the parking lot fence, he found himself back at the steel mill.

Entering the main mill floor, Owen found Abby kneeling in the center with her head hung low. The enormity of the vast, nearly empty mill dwarfed the slight young girl. Owen's heart leaped out to Abby, so alone. Charlie's body was cast off to the side, next to the crucibles. "Are you okay?" Owen asked.

Abby nodded and looked at Owen. It was Abby, but she didn't look quite right. Her eyes were a dull green with red flecks, like a heliotrope. Her hair and skin were cracked and lifeless with blood spattered throughout. _What's with the eyes?_

Owen continued with his routine – gathering the bucket with water, shampoo, soap, sponges, spare clothes, and, of course, Blaise's comb. He washed her as he always had, ritualistically removing the blood and cleansing away the dead skin. But Abby was not her normal, sedate self after consuming her meal. She was jumpy and anxious. "Are you sure you're okay, Abby?" Owen asked again.

She crawled onto Owen's lap just as she did last time. Owen tried to comb out the brittle hair, but Abby was being difficult. She held Owen's bearded cheek and kissed him. The third person to kiss him tonight, but this time the pieces fit. She pulled away and glanced at Owen with her blood speckled eyes. Her deep, guttural voice was not vanquished by the meal. "He had a lot of blood. This one tasted finer than the others … a little bitter. Thank you," she said.

Owen wasn't quite sure what to make of her graciousness. It felt awkward getting thanks for retrieving a victim. "You're welcome, I guess," he said. _Was it just because the taste?_ "Why are you thanking me?"

"Thank you for killing him." She looked pleased and kissed him again. "Do you think … maybe... next time … you could drain the blood?"

Owen chuckled at the misunderstanding, "I didn't kill him. He shot himself."

Abby's expression changed to one of bewilderment. She placed her fingers to his lips, examining the blisters. Then, if possible, her speech became deeper and more irritated, "What's wrong with your lips? Why do you taste so weird?"

"I was trying to keep myself from getting sick. The guy … he had some strange disease."

Before Owen's eyes, her eyes grew darker and skin became more sallow. Her voice, even deeper and angrier than before, echoed through the steel mill. "What is wrong with you? Are you fucking stupid?" Abby pushed off hard against Owen's chest. He flew several feet toward the crucibles. "You brought me someone sick … again?"

Owen writhed on the floor in pain while Abby pressed the heel of her hands into her eyes. She wailed in agony, "What is wrong with me? I can't quiet the demons!" Wings sprouted from her the back of her neck, and she flew away into the rooftop shadow.

Owen's ribs ached, but not as much as his pride. Abby was right … he was stupid. So happy to have found a victim for Abby, he did not give it any more thought. His inability to consider killing someone … to think through a plan, led to this. _But anybody could be sick_. He knew that wasn't true. This was no random thing. He knew Charlie was sick. So worried about how it would affect him, he did not even consider the effect on Abby. He wasn't sure what the illness would do to her, but he knew she would suffer for it – just like from the old man's blood poisoning.

Owen pushed himself up from the floor. Abby's abyssal, resilient anger festered in his thoughts. The effect of the narcotics were wearing off. He strode over to Charlie's lifeless body and removed his belongings from his pockets. He hauled the corpse over to the furnace, ignoring the fresh, burning pain in his ribs. He earned it. Owen opened the massive foundry door and dumped the body in with the old man's. Several pieces of wooden pallets followed along with a couple of burning pieces. Owen shut the metal door and trusted the fire to do its work.

Despondent with his failure, Owen wanted to leave. But he didn't know where to go. It was still dark outside. He positioned the ladder under the rails and climbed to the roof. The going was slow. To keep the pain at a dull roar he only used one hand. Once on the roof, Owen wandered to the edge overlooking the river. Across the Fourth Street Bridge he saw the massive cedar billowing in the wind; a tiny car rested on its island bank.

He sat down and withdrew Charlie's utensils from his coat pocket and set them next to him on the roof. Just the way he was taught, Owen waved the lighter flame under the spoon containing the white powder. Goosebumps rose from his arms when he removed the coat. He couldn't manage to tie the rubber tube with one hand. "Fuck it," he whispered and tossed it to the ground. He injected the fluid directly into his bicep. It would take a little longer, but not as long as tying the band.

Within a few minutes, Abby's anger and the pain in his side began to dissipate. He no longer felt the cold. Red lights flashed along the river bank. _Maybe those are for real._ He lay down precariously along the side of the roof, the needle dangling from his arm. Visions of demons paraded by. Owen stared into the face of evil and was frightened. If only his mother were here, she could comfort him.

He retreated to a fantasy land of blissful ignorance. Three vultures circled above him, waiting to take him home … to devour his flesh. In his stupor he heard a sound. A whisper, carried across the wind, called to him. He could barely make it out. Searching for the courage to follow, he focused on the voice. "Owen, come back to me," she said.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Not Sure When This Occurs

**Owen**

Owen studied the grimy, untamed creature sitting across from him. His opposite's eyes were bloodshot and glazed over; he could not keep his arms still. He reminded Owen of one of the caged, savage creatures pacing in the Pueblo Zoo. Melting snow dripped from his mangy hair. His movements matched Owen's. When Owen moved his arm, so did his opposite. _What an idiot!_

_**Owen, come back to me.**_

As his eyes focused, it slowly dawned on him that the feral creature sitting across from him was his own reflection in a wall-length mirror. He barely recognized himself. A man wearing a gray suit paced the room while a uniformed police officer leaned against the corner as an observer. Owen's filthy arms rested on the brown, laminated table in front of him.

"Why is it so cold?" Owen shivered on the cold metal chair in the police interrogation room. His eyes darted back and forth, no longer able to concentrate on the disturbing reflection. Agent Guerard – that was his name.

"It's Colorado. It's always cold." The uniformed police officer said, his name was Sacco. "Look, we need to know – should we call you Kenny or Owen?"

Owen shook his head dispassionately, "I don't care."

"Okay, Kenny, what's your last name?"

He sat there for a few minutes, avoiding his reflection. He had it … he could feel it right on the back of his dreams. Then, like an image in the mist, it faded away. "I don't remember." He was disappointed in his own failure. He honestly could not remember his last name. It had been years since he gave it a moment's thought.

"Were you involved in the death of Hayo Steen?" Agent Guerard asked. He removed his sport coat and hung it over the doorknob. He was small, lumpy man when compared to Sacco. But who wasn't? His thin gray hair and matching mustache glowed yellow in the weak light of the interrogation room. From his exasperated tone, Owen figured this was not the first time for the question.

"What's a Hayo Steen?"

Officer Sacco placed a photograph of a purplish-pale, mutilated corpse in front of Owen. "He's the person whose wedding ring you tried to exchange with an undercover police officer for some crack. Do you remember now? How'd you get the ring?"

"I don't think he needed it anymore," Owen answered. He scoured his memory. "He was already dead."

"What about the blood? How did you get his blood on your hands?" Officer Sacco insisted.

For the first time, Owen noticed his hands bouncing on the table in front of him. "My hands are covered with blood!" He howled. "Poison. Get it off of me!"

In his anger and worry, he placed both hands under the interrogation table and frantically pushed. The table flew into the mirrored window and bounced off, cracking the safety glass. Hayo Steen's photograph flickered and floated down to the floor of the room. Owen regressed to the opposite corner of the room drywashing his hands tightly together. "Get it off me!"

Guerard uprighted the table on the floor. He turned to Sacco, "In Denver, we bolt these to the floor."

"That's probably a good idea. We should consider that," Sacco left the interrogation room.

Owen retreated into untroubled catatonia. _Easter, many years ago, his parents still tried to create memories. He woke early to the simplest of untainted joys: an overflowing basket of chocolate, jellybeans and yellow marshmallow bunnies. "Mom, look what I got!" _

_He devoured a marshmallow bunny first - then onto the colossal chocolate bunny. Solid chocolate and addictively appealing. First the ears, then the head – for some reason, the head was the best part. Red, cherry-flavored, caramel dripped from the neck. He slurped, savoring the sickly, sweet goodness. It tasted like blood. Preserving the rest of the bunny for later he fished out a few jelly beans. What was with all of that plastic green grass filling the bottom of the basket? That little Easter bunny cheater!_

_Owen turned away from his basket, noticing his sleepy-eyed father entering the family room wearing his robe and slippers. "Are you ready to hunt for eggs?" he asked Owen._

_With an excited "yeah!" Owen jumped up and grabbed a lunch size paper bag. A day earlier his mother helped him dye a dozen eggs. Vinegar scent lingered in their compact Kitchen. Overnight these eggs were hidden in the back yard to task Owen's exploration skills. He rushed out the back door with his parents following. Steam twirled from their fresh mugs of coffee._

_After a few minutes of eager searching, eleven of the eggs resided in the bottom of the paper bag. The twelfth egg couldn't be found anywhere. He looked and looked … under every toy, leaf, and crevice in the backyard. There is always one missing. "Some animal must have taken it," Owen said disappointed with his failure. _

"No, an animal did not take the ring. You took it. You tried to sell it to an undercover officer in exchange for drugs," agent Guerard insisted with an exasperated tone. "You already admitted this." _What did a ring have to do with Easter eggs?_

Officer Sacco returned to the interrogation room about the same time Owen did. Owen studied his hands when the officer grabbed them. The blood on his hands was black. Fingerprint ink. Sacco cleaned Owen's hands with a moist towelette while Owen continued to whimper on the floor. After a few minutes, he allowed Sacco to guide him to the chair. The agent asked about the ring once again.

"He was dead when I found him." Owen grew more confident. "He didn't need it anymore."

The agent slammed his open palm down on the table in front of Owen, "That doesn't mean that you can take it," the agent said.

"Why not?" Owen shrugged. "I live off of the waste of others. It's a lifestyle choice." Owen looked around to the two officers, "Can I still get the drugs?"

"No you don't get the drugs. What do you need with the drugs?" Sacco asked.

"It kills the pain." Then, in a near whisper Owen added. "It quiets the voices."

The Agent tried another approach, "What about the massacre at Lake Pueblo?" Guerard positioned a publicity photo of a gray haired man in wire framed glasses and his trademark bolo tie. "Do you know anything about the massacre of the mayor's party?"

"The mayor's dead?" Owen asked.

"Don't you read the papers? It's been all over the news?"

"No ... I don't read the news anymore." He paused, considering it for a moment. The officers waited expectantly. "I'm worried I might read about my own death," Owen said with his eyes nervously darting from side to side. He picked up the picture and studied it for a few moments. It seemed like a friendly face with gray hair and a goatee. "I'm sorry he's dead. I liked his chicken. I don't think I've ever been to Lake Pueblo … I'm sure I haven't."

Guerard watched Owen as he was looking at the picture. He pulled up a chair across the table from Owen backwards and straddled the seat with his arms casually resting on the back. "At least ten people have been killed in this area and others are missing. You're on the streets. Have you witnessed any of the murders?"

"I never watch," Owen said. But he felt them. Each and every one of the deaths haunted him. He held the dull, rusted pocketknife in his hands pressed against her neck. He couldn't watch. Ten … that seems like an awful lot. They never found the bodies when Owen protected her – at least he was good for that. _My hands are covered with blood. _He held himself together for the moment. "I have died a thousand deaths."

Officer Sacco was pacing now, growing impatient with Owen's lack of answers. "What about the car in the river? We found your fingerprints in the car and on the trunk."

Owen remembered the man in the car. "That was a long time ago … Charlie," Owen said. His nervous eyes darted around the room trying to find something to focus on, but failing. All Owen could see was the gaping hole in the back of Charlie's head. "He was sick … another coward. He died a thousand times, maybe more. Shot himself." The cracked mirror of the interrogation room reminded Owen of the shattered windshield. He glanced away, studying the wall.

"Where's the body? We never found it."

Owen remembered that, too. Charlie's belt buckle snagged on the lip of the giant foundry door. It tore when Owen forced him through the opening. "It's in the pit … with the others." He shrugged. "I didn't know where else to put it."

"This is getting ridiculous. Would you like a coffee?" Officer Sacco asked. "I can get you one."

"I'll take some water … a little food, too." Owen replied. _Maybe he wasn't asking me_. Guerard shook his head 'no.'

Sacco left once again through the interrogation room door.

Owen was worried … alone with Guerard. He seemed like he had a temper. "Where is this pit?"

"It's behind a giant metal gate. Find that and you'll find the pit."

"Enough about Langston, Tony is worried about him. More recently, we fished another body in the river. Do you know anything about him?"

"He was on fire." Owen sat up in his chair, rapt with attention, like he was teaching the detective something new. "Fire is amazing. Did you know that fire can destroy, but it can also purify or strengthen? You can't make steel without fire. Think about that." Owen sat back in his chair and crossed his arms – impressed with his personal knowledge. Then he added, "The river smothered the fire. It's dead. How does a river die?"

Sacco returned with a Styrofoam cup of water and one for himself with coffee. Steam rose from the cup just like the steam rose from the body in the river. Cinnamon – he smelled a floral cinnamon odor – no, that's not correct – Selkie told him it was hyssop.

Owen remembered lowering the lifeless, broken body into the icy river. He should have worn plastic bags on his legs. Greg muttered angry prayers from the bank. The corpse's head hung awkwardly from his neck exposing a putrid, gaping wound. His bones were shattered from the fall. Owen babbled on, incoherently – "He lied to me. He said he was a coward, but he wasn't. He only died once. I wanted to fish, but the river was dead. We only caught cans. He threaded the needle's eye. I'm sure he made it through." The body floated out into the river. It hung up on one of the many small spillways. Owen shrugged, "With God all things are possible, even getting' through that needle. That's what Erasmus says, but he's an idiot." Owen glanced around the room for a furnace. "Can you start a fire? I'm freezing."

_**Owen, are you there? Please come back**_, the pleading, melodious voice whirled across the breeze.

Special agent Guerard motioned for Sacco to the far corner of the interrogation room. "What do you think?" he asked Sacco

"I think Erasmus is a lot smarter than this kid."

"I meant about his story … about the deaths. Does any of it make sense?"

"None of this makes any sense. Ten bodies, and we don't even know for certain that a crime has taken place."

"What else could it be?"

"Well … first we thought it was some sort of animal attack. Now I'm thinking it could be an illness." Sacco rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. "Maybe this kid has immunity against the disease. Perhaps it's genetic or he has built up some sort of resistance. We should contact the Department of Public Health or the CDC … get some blood tested."

"Not yet. We don't know anything. I don't want to create a needless panic," Guerard said.

"It might be too late for that. I know a thing or two about deaths from strange medical problems. The panic is just beginning. I have a bad feeling about where it is headed. Fear … that's the real disease."

As they talked, Owen floated over the dead Arkansas River.

"_You need to get ready for church now Owen," his mother said._

"_Aww. Why do I have to go to church? Can't I have more candy? Then maybe we can hide the eggs again!" little Owen pleaded as he scarfed down a peanut butter egg._

"_It's Easter; we have to go to church, sweetie. You can hunt for eggs again later. We have to leave soon, or we'll stand. I've laid out your clothes on your bed. If you hurry, I'll let you take a piece of candy with you." She picked up his Easter basket and placed it on the high shelf in the pantry, out of Owen's reach._

_Owen raced to his bedroom. He quickly removed his pajamas and changed into his new outfit – blue slacks with a crisp, white dress shirt. Each button required the full dexterity of his little fingers. He clipped his tie over the top button and donned a new, bright green sweater vest over top. He knew he should have worn his dress shoes, but his blue PF Flyers matched just fine. With those he could run faster and jump higher._

_Matchbox race cars were scattered around his bedroom floor in a distracting way. In the midst of a miniature demolition derby he heard his mother calling, "Are you ready Owen?" Shoot! That's right – church._

_Owen exited his bedroom the same time as his father was leaving his. "You look sharp, buddy." He tousled Owen's hair. _

"_Thanks, Dad. You do too." Owen had not realized that his father owned a suit._

_In the foyer, Owen's mother tucked in his shirt tail, repositioned his tie, and tamed his cowlick with a wet comb. She looked beautiful! Her long, pink Easter dress was complemented by a pearl necklace and matching earrings. Owen thought those pearls must be worth thousands! Just imagine the size of oysters that made them. She smelled heavenly. But the pearls were as false as the loving family appearance. _

"_You look so dapper, my handsome men." Topped off with an oh so rare smile, she kissed Owen on the cheek. Yuch! Owen was forced to wipe off the gross lipstick residue. His mother handed him a pastel colored bag of M&M's for the car ride._

_In the uncomfortable wooden pew, Owen concentrated on his church-themed coloring book. The priest talked and talked and talked – it was so much gibberish. As he selected his favorite shade of jungle green for the wise men's cloaks, the priest caught his attention. He held up the wafer high and looked around the church. "Take this, all of you, and eat it: this is my body which will be given up for you."_

_With these words the figure on the crucifix behind the celebrant came alive. He turned his head and gazed directly at Owen. Blood pooled at the wounds in his hand and feet. The piercing wound in his side dripped on the floor. The figure looked pensive while Owen stared transfixed. "Pick up your crayon, Owen," his mother said. But her voice echoed like she was under water._

_The Christ figure's forehead started to bleed from the holes poked by his crown. Tears dripped from his eyes mixing with the blood and streaming down the front of his face. He trembled, in anguish. He could die. "No!" Owen yelled. "You can come in! You can come in!"_

"I'm in, Kenny. I'm here. Are you okay?" Officer Sacco was kneeling next to his chair shaking his shoulder.

Owen noticed his distorted reflection in the shattered mirror. For a moment he thought it was blood on his cheeks, just like Abby. But the streaks running down his face were muddy brown, not red. The snow from his hair had melted, blending with weeks of built up grime. Guerard returned to the interrogation room, folder in hand, and shut the door. Sacco handed Owen a towel that he used to dry his eyes and wipe his chin.

"I want to go home," Owen said.

"Where is home?" Guerard asked.

Owen considered the question – not the shelter nor the steel mill. "Twelve years ago ... before the fighting. That's where home is."

Guerard continued as though only a few minutes passed. It felt like more than a decade. "You know what they say 'You can never go home again.'"

Owen nodded, he understood – water under the railroad bridge. You can't throw a rock in the same river twice.

"What about the infant? Do you know anything about the baby's murder?" Guerard asked.

Owen closed his eyes. This memory was too much for him to bear. The mother screaming for help. Blood dripping off the stroller ... onto the snowy sidewalk. His eyes welled up with tears. "I was too late. I tried to stop it, but I was too late." Memories of the baby would not escape his thoughts. "Why am I here?" Owen pleaded staring directly at Guerard.

"You are here because we have experienced a series of deaths in Pueblo. The bodies were drained of blood. Your fingerprints match those found at the scene and you had his belongings in your possession." Guerard explained. "We are looking for answers. Were you involved in their deaths?"

"No!" Owen protested. He smacked the table with both hands and cried, "Why am I in Pueblo? I should have stayed in the mountains." He stood up and paced the room. "I'm here in the shadow of death. There are so many more deaths here. I should never have come."

Sensing a new tack in questioning Sacco intervened. "If you are in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, then you have nothing to fear. Why don't you tell us what happened?"

The reference triggered a memory. "With my rod and my staff I will fear no Kenny." He studied Guerard and Sacco to see if they understood, but their expressions were mystified. The memory came shattering back. Kenny lay screaming on the surface of the frozen pond. "I hit Kenny with the rod." He smiled at the memory; I did it Abby. I hit Kenny – the one time he was truly pleased with his violence, even if just for a moment. Just like she told him, he hit back.

Then he recalled the image of Kenny's bloody, dismembered corpse. "He's dead, too." The mountains were no escape. Death was everywhere. The reality came crashing in. He remembered his name. "I'm not Kenny."

"Does that make you Owen? Did you kill Kenny?"

"No," Owen answered. "But he's dead just the same. Can I have the drugs now?"

Owen rose up from his chair and paced along the back wall. He could not sit still. _"Sit down. Owen." His mother whispered._

"_I was getting my crayon," Owen said getting up from the floor. He finished coloring the green cloaks of the wise men. He colored their faces green, too. Why not? With crayons all things are possible._

_The priest continued about his task rinsing his hands in the crystal bowl, adding water and wine to the chalice. The bearded figure behind him stared into the sky with his arms outstretched. A gash festered in his side. The priest maneuvered his golden chalice under the man's rib. Lifting the skin flap, he filled the remainder of the chalice with blood drained from the body. He turned once again to the congregation holding the chalice high. "This is the blood of Christ." _

"_Thanks be to God," The congregation answered in return. The priest drank from the goblet. When he pulled it away, his lips glistened deep red; covered in blood. But he grinned with maddening joy. _

_Beneath the feet of the celebrant, the altar turned into a sandy, desert wilderness with a few passive lizards warming themselves in the sun. Whie sand and dust wafted around the dais. The post on which the bleeding man hung grew, becoming an enormous cedar. Spanish moss draped from the thick branches. The expanding tree forced the roof away from the walls and snow showers fell through the newly created openings._

_A smaller figure dropped from the hole to the floor behind the altar. Owen noticed a dirty, claw-toed foot peeking out from the edge. As she turned to face the congregation, her straw colored blond hair whirled around her face. She stared at Owen with the deepest, darkest, evil blue eyes and hissed._

_The demon crawled up to the feet of the bleeding man and lapped up the puddle of blood pooling on the floor. Grasping at the fissures in the bark, she climbed the base of the tree. Like a cat with a bowl of milk, she lapped at the blood from the holes in his feet. The priest continued his celebration of the mass, without any understanding of this evil presence in his church. The man on the tree, with his crown of thorns stared mournfully to the heavens. "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"_

_The demon continued lapping up the blood. As she approached the wound in the man's side, Owen realized the danger of infection. She might poison him. "No, Abby no!" He cried out to distract her attention away from the man dangling from the tree._

"Who's Abby?" The angry agent asked. His tie had been loosened; he unbuttoned his top button.

_**Please, for the love of God, come back to me.**_

How much had he said? How can he recover from this? Owen rubbed his palms into his weary eyes, "I think I'm going crazy."

Sacco leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. With intensity, he repeated the agent's question, "Who is Abby?"

"Do either of you know where I can get the concentrated blood of a saint?" Owen asked trying to change the subject.

Silence. Guerard pulled out a package of cigarettes from his front shirt pocket and offered one to Sacco. Sacco shook his head. Guerard culled one, placed it in his mouth, and lit it with a silver, engraved lighter. After taking a long drag on the cigarette, Guerard pressed out the smoky breath. "Who is Abby?" he asked more resolutely than before. Owen coughed from the smoke.

"Abbè Jean-Louis Le Loutre … he's a priest." Let's see what they do with that piece of information. Put that in your cigarette and smoke it.

"Where can we find this priest?" Owen shook his head. It was just a way to guide them away from Abby. He had no idea if this guy existed outside of Abby's nightmares. Why he was being so protective of her? She tossed him away like the grocery store's old produce. He should have directed the police right to the mill, but he still felt obliged to protect her, even if she felt nothing for him. "You can try Lake Pueblo." Owen suggested, knowing that would keep him away from the mill.

The interrogation table groaned under the weight as the uniformed, supersized police officer sat right on top of the table. With a concerned quiet voice he asked Owen, "Have you seen my son anywhere?"

"How would I know your son?"

Tony pulled out a small elementary school photograph from his wallet and handed it to Owen. "This is my son. Have you seen him anywhere?"

"Oh yeah, I remember him." Then under his breath he added, "The little prick."

"That's him; where is he?"

"How long has it been since you lost him?"

"I didn't lose him. He ran away. It's been a few weeks … almost a month."

Owen shrugged at the news. "He's probably dead ... or worse," he answered flippantly averting his eyes from the officer. A millipede wriggled up the wall in the interrogation room wall.

The police officer's anger swelled to the surface. "Dammit, will you give me a straight answer!" Sacco smacked him across the face restoring Owen's attention. "What is worse than death?"

Owen blinked at the outburst. Stars swirled around his eyes. Then he shook his head to gain a little clarity. That was a selfish answer. "He's probably okay. I hope he's taking good care of her."

"That does it." Agent Guerard pounded on the table, returning the picture of the rotting corpse directly in front of Owen. "You're not telling us everything you know. Did you kill those people?"

"No," Owen said simply. He thought for a moment and posed this question, "Why doesn't anybody go on D Street anymore?"

"People are on D Street every day. I just had lunch there."

Owen shook his head. These guys were morons. "Not at night they don't."

"He's right," Officer Sacco said. "D Street used to be alive at night. We'd root out the drug dealers and street walkers all the time. Cockroaches; as soon as you left, they scurried back out. But not anymore." Sacco pushed himself off of the table, and began pacing the room. It looked like he was trying to sort out where the path led. "Why is that Owen?"

Owen took a sip from his cup of water and swallowed deliberately. What were these guys prepared for? "Evil," he answered at a whisper. "I have looked in the face of evil and I am powerless."

"Maybe we should wait until he sobers up," Officer Sacco suggested.

From the corner, Guerard asked, "Nope. Let's keep going … all night, if we have to. Owen, tell me about Hayo Steen."

Owen tried to think, where had he heard that phrase before? "What's a Hayo Steen?"

"God dammit," said Guerard. "Do we have to cover this again?" He picked the photograph up from the floor.

They continued like this for hours … alternating between friendly and angry, but mostly just plain irritated. Owen was no help. What were they going to threaten him with? Prison? Better than the streets. He just needed a way to quiet the voices. Owen grew hungry; then he grew tired. Finally he placed his arms on the table in front of him and rested his head. "You guys ask too many questions that you don't want answered. Can I go to sleep now?"

Resigned to failure for the evening, they ushered him down to the holding cells in the basement. A guard buzzed them through. It was warm down there. This must be where they kept the fire. Almost immediately, he started to sweat.

They placed him in one of the cells across from another prisoner. The other prisoner reached out through his arms out the door. "Don't let them put you down here. You will never escape! When do I get my right to a speedy trial?"

"Shut up, Victor," Sacco said. "Don't worry about him he's a special case. We don't really know what to do about him. We can't charge him, and we can't let him go."

"Special case?" Victor said. "I'll tell you about a special case. They're conducting crazy experiments down here … in the laboratory. I've seen it with my own eyes."

"Am I crazy, like him?" Owen asked. "Is this where you keep us?"

"Nobody is quite like Victor," Sacco answered unlocking the giant, green metal door for Owen. "Hey, a metal gate. Maybe Charlie is in there."

"No it's a different color … a different door. The one you're searching for his black." Owen suggested helpfully. The heavy metal door slid shut behind him.

Owen was left to himself, wallowing in his nightmares. The echo of Victor's crazy laughter shattered the silence. Two beds were attached to the wall, one on top of the other. Owen sat on the lower one; the metal springs creaked from his weight under the thin mattress.

He rose from the mattress and explored the cell. In one corner cubby-hole, behind a cinder-block wall, Owen found a stainless steel commode and sink … thankfully no mirror. Almost at the ceiling level was an angled, pull down window. He pulled it down letting the blessed coolness flow in. Behind the window was steel bars covered by a strong wire mesh, as though he would want to escape. After removing his black high-top sneakers, he lied down on the mattress, on top of the blanket, and shut his eyes. His dreams drifted to a rare moment of peace.

_He sat on his mother's lap, wearing his Scooby Doo pajamas, and rested his head against her chest. She was reading to him, he could not remember the story, but the voice brought him joy. "... Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere," she whispered lovingly. "Now it's goodnight, my little man … go to sleep. I hope you had a wonderful Easter."_

"_What happened to your eye?" Owen asked placing his hand on her cheek. It was swollen, black and blue._

"_It's nothing," she answered. "I'm so clumsy. I ran into an open cabinet door." Then she whispered, "An eye for an ear."_

"_Would you like me to kiss it and make it better?"_

"_That would be wonderful." His mother bent down while Owen reached his lips to her cheek and pressed them tight against the bruise. She winced at his compassion, but didn't pull away._

"_Did I hurt you?"_

"_No, it feels much better. Thank you. Now try to go to sleep. You have school tomorrow." Owen jumped off of her lap and ran to his bed, snuggling under his Pete's Dragon bed spread. His mother sat there quietly for a few more minutes of peace. Then she lifted her glass of wine; in one giant gulp she swallowed the remainder. Owen fell asleep with her sitting in the dark room._

_Screech._ Owen was jolted awake by a frenzied wail from outside. Somewhere in the skies above Pueblo a furious, hateful anger flared through his thoughts. The blood-curdling howl was answered by a second, deeper wail. Razor like claws tore into her shoulder. Trembling from the battle, she howled in pain and struck back with her teeth.

The thoughts battered his mind in a furious echo. One mind, a remnant of a comforting past, fought harshly against her memory. An evil hiss savored the enjoyment of the fight. He tasted blood. Wings fluttered followed by a loud, jolting thud. He felt the collision and plummeted to the ground. It didn't concern him. He just needed more drugs … to chase his demons away.

"I told you," Victor said from across the hall, "experiments – evil experiments. We're safer here."

Owen spent the rest of the night, sitting on his rack; his throbbing head buried in his hands. He bounced his head rhythmically to shake away the hallucinations.

_**Owen, are you there? Please come back to me.**_

Finally, after several hours, the light rose from above the horizon, brightening Owen's cell. The voices grew quiet once again with the dawn.

The bolt on his jail cell unlocked to a bleary eyed officer Sacco and a pencil-necked man in a suit. "Owen, this is Charles Kendrick. He's your lawyer." Sacco was pale white and shaking. Either he injected coffee or was really upset.

Kendrick held out his hand, but Owen kept his head buried in his own palms. "We should be able to get you released this morning. You are no longer a suspect in the murders. Isn't that great news?"

Wonderful, Owen thought. "There was another death last night, wasn't there?" Owen said.

"Several," Officer Sacco admitted. "Your lawyer is going to plead to an attempt to purchase a controlled substance. It will be classified as a misdemeanor." Sacco held onto Owen's shoulder and studied him with blood shot eyes. "Owen, if you know anything, we could really use your help. I have no idea what we're looking at here."

"I can't think of anything," Owen answered. _At least not anything that you would believe_.

Kendrick said, "You will be free on parole per the plea deal."

"You have to stop into the office next Monday to receive the details," Sacco said. "Can we record your address at the shelter?" Owen nodded.

They guided him to the elevator to an upstairs courtroom. It was nothing like Owen expected. Portable tables and plastic chairs were lined up neatly throughout what looked like an abandoned office area. Another attorney sat on the opposite table across the aisle from Owen and Kendrick.

But it was still a judge, with robe and gavel and all the trappings. Owen thought he should ask for some jail time, just a couple of years, to keep him out of harm's way. But he never got the chance – the lawyers did all of the talking. The judge, with his stern demeanor simply asked, "Do you agree to the charges set forth?"

"Yes, but..." then the gavel came down cutting off Owen's request.

The judge strode off after the "All rise" ceremony, and that was it. Owen, without a last name, had a criminal record, but no jail time. Without jail, what's the point?

As they were headed out of the courtroom, Sacco pulled Owen aside. "I need to warn you Owen. The deaths have received a lot of attention in the local media. Word got out that you are a person of interest in this investigation."

"I guess I'm an interesting person."

"Take this seriously. There are some people out there screaming for blood. Be careful … and if you know anything about the deaths, you need to let us know. And stay off the drugs."

"Sure," Owen agreed. _How dangerous could it be? It's daytime_. Sacco stayed by his side while he left the police station. "I'll help if I can. I just need to find the cure. Do you know where I can find the concentrated blood of a saint or the essence of hope?"

"I have no idea, but I think we could all use a little hope."

When Owen reached the door to the police station, he discovered how dangerous it could be. Hundreds of people lined the police barricades. A very serious District Attorney addressed the crowd and the cameras. Several police officers patrolled the barricades, but they didn't appear very supportive. At Owen's appearance, the crowd roared its disapproval. Owen thought he should wave, like Princess Diana, but he reconsidered it. What was he going to do at the end of the barriers?

He didn't have to find out. Owen covered his head as bottles, cans and batteries flew through the air. _Batteries? I can use those_. While distracted, a wayward rock pierced his defenses, striking him mid-temple. Stunned, Owen wavered for a second. A bright light flashed before his eyes along with a powerful throbbing. Then he fell to the ground. "Owen!" was screamed from the crowd.

He lay there on the sidewalk weaving in and out of lucidity. Feet jostled in front of his eyes. A commotion stirred as the police officers tried to fight back the crowd. Additional officers raced past Owen from the police station. He felt himself move. Someone rolled him over on his back. Long brown hair drifted across his eyes. Raising his hand he stroked her face and whispered her name, "Gabby."

"Don't call me that," she replied, but she was smiling. "Let's get you up and out of here."

_**Owen, are you okay? Come back to me.**_

His eyes flickered. A freight train thundered through his battered head. A migraine induced bright light shrouded the anxious, innocent face, filled with worry. She was gazing down at him. Green eyes slowly came into focus. Streetlights caused tiny droplets on her hair to sparkle. In the gloom of darkness her hair looked darker than her natural flaxen. Ash rained down around her like the entire city was on fire. Thousands of stars falling from the sky. Snow ... it was snow. "Abby," he whispered, "What's wrong?"

Gently rubbing Owen's cheek with her thumb, tears dripped from her eyes. "You were so still. I thought I had lost you."

"Í guess you found me."

"I'll always find you. I promise," she said.

His awareness slowly returned. His overcoat and a blanket were draped over top of him and an inch of clean, white snow carpeted his coat along with the rooftop. He smelled like shit – literally. "How long have I been up here?" Pain radiated through his sore ribs.

"A very long time." she chuckled while fighting the sobs. "I've been checking on you every night."

"What ... like 200 years?"

"Don't be stupid. Maybe a week." Gently rubbing Owen's cheek with her thumb, tears dripped from her eyes. "You were so still. I thought you were gone."

He reached out his arm, "Help me up." She grasped his arm and helped pull him to his feet. He knocked over two of his soup cans. Water drained out of one and a pasty mush out of the other. The melted the fresh snow. His muscles burned as he moved them for the first time in days. He tried to shake out the stiffness.

At the hatch, Abby scampered down the wall into the mill. Owen wasn't as quick. Staring through the opening into the mill, Owen realized just how far down it was. _That is a lot of rungs! _At the first step, weakened from inactivity and cold, his muscles rebelled. They shook, flaring from the strain. When they quieted, he took the next rung … then the next. One at a time until he found the ladder at the very bottom.

Exhausted after scaling down the ladder, he found Abby patiently waiting on their mattress. "You could have helped me down."

"I didn't want to wound your pride."

Owen smiled at the gesture, "Feel free, next time you see me struggling so much." He searched through the plastic bag of their measly belongings and found some rags and soap. "I'll be back in a sec."

In the bathroom he sucked down what seemed like gallons of water. The water refreshed him and rejuvenated him. He was thirsty after his days on the roof. He became more aware of the muscle aches. Tiredness swept over him, but he took the time to clean off his filth. He barely had the strength to wonder what Abby did to help him survive the week on the cold roof.

A few minutes later, a much cleaner Owen joined the already sleepy Abby on the mattress. Pulling the covers over their heads, Owen snuggled in tight. She was freezing. Everything was going to be all right. His muscle aches were already dimming. She was here – right next to him and in his thoughts. He fell asleep to more normal, bucolic dreams of Abby.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

The Essence of Hope

**December 5, 1988**

**Tony Sacco**

The yellow saw horses were aligned, acting once again as the defense of last resort, this time for a school of all places. The battle of Pueblo was being waged at Thatcher Elementary; Javier's school. Buses pulled into the school parking lot and unloaded children who seemed blissfully unaware of the uproar surrounding them. Adults acted like juveniles while rabidly proclaiming the injustice. "How dare they endanger my child by allowing a student with AIDS at this school?"

On the prowl against malicious shenanigans, Tony was commanded to protect the protesters' rights of free speech. At an elementary school. _What the hell were these people thinking?_ Bookended by several of his fellow officers, he paid rapt attention to the angry legion. He hoped one of these cretins would get out of line. Then he could unleash his frustration.

Another police car pulled into the school parking lot. Tony was surprised to see his friend get out of the car to support the protection detail. As he approached, Tony inquired, "Shouldn't you still be on your honeymoon?"

"It turns out my wife had other plans," Roberto answered with a grin that showed he wasn't irritated at these other plans. "My **wife** can you believe that?" He shook out his bleary, red eyes in disbelief at the turn of events. "We only had reservations for two. The baby wasn't invited. He decided to come along anyway. The ingrate!" His mile-wide smile betrayed any hostility he felt at the missed honeymoon. "Mother and son are doing fine, resting peacefully at the maternity center – more peacefully than I am." Roberto held a box of cigars that he handed out to his fellow officers.

Tony pocketed his in his shirt pocket. "Congratulations." He shook his hand. "You should be with them – anyplace but here."

"Nah, I need a break. It's been a long night. Lorena might not be working for a few months, and I could use the overtime."

That settled, they had time to revist the most pressing, but dismal, news. Sports. "Did you get a chance to see the game?" Tony asked. He never needed to specify which game.

"Curiously enough, Lorena wasn't the least bit interested in the Broncos. I don't know what the hell got into her," Roberto said. "I saw bits and pieces of the game from the delivery room. I wish I hadn't watched any of it. The doctor was a Raiders fan. I almost fired him on the spot. He was in far too good a mood. This has been a rotten season all around. I'm glad I have something to distract me."

"Yeah," Tony agreed, "You can't win the division, if you lose to the Raiders with just a few weeks left. We aren't out of the playoff hunt, but they are a disgrace."

"Last year – Superbowl. This year, maybe nothing. The boys in Orange have let us down again."

"Injuries … they always blame the injuries, but I think the Broncos never recovered from that shellacking by the Redskins –Chief Black Kettle came back to haunt us. He got his revenge from the Lake Pueblo massacre all those years ago." He jostled Roberto on the shoulder. "The Broncos could have used you on the defensive line."

"Nah, that wouldn't be as much fun as protecting these sawhorses, would it?" Roberto chuckled at the sentiment and then added more dejectedly, "Who am I kidding? The spirit is willing, but the knee is weak. I'm only twenty-six, and some days I have trouble getting out of bed."

Another yellow bus arrived at the school. The angry, mulling crowd bellowed their protest once again, as though these kids were personally responsible. Tony and the other officers monitored them for any trouble. After the children escaped into the school, the bus driver drove away and the demonstration quieted down once again. Tony and Roberto turned their conversation to more routine police matters.

"Did you notice the report on the car recovered from the river last week?" Tony asked.

"You should be pleased with that. The car belonged to your arch nemesis – the owner of Club Fusion."

"Nah, just the opposite," Tony answered. "I went to high school with him … Charlie Langston. He was all right. They never did find the body, and the club hasn't opened all week."

"I've been out of the loop. What do you think happened to him?"

"It looks like it could be suicide, but the blood spatter suggests he was in the back seat and he wasn't alone. They haven't found a body – it might not even be him." Tony answered. Several other officers eavesdropped on the conversation. "The boats have been dredging all week. The suits can't seem to figure out how the car got in the river with Charlie in the back seat."

Another half-full bus pulled into the school lot to unload the children. The bluster rose to a rumbling thunder. They anxiously surveyed the occupants to determine if their marks were on board. One by one the children disembarked with smiles of anticipation for their day. _So small, what are we doing here?_ So intent on the school bus; the crowd nearly missed the two waifs shuffling anxiously along the fence.

Tony recognized them before anybody else. _I guess nobody expected them to be walking._ He jogged to their side to escort them into the building. Next to him the children looked more paltry and pitiful than before. Tony hoped his presence would intimidate the crowd. If anything, it had the opposite effect. They grew louder and more agitated; screaming for the safety of their own children.

As if to emphasize their cry, a gunshot rang out. Tony dove, enveloping the kids with his body. An upper story classroom window shattered and glass rained down on the front lawn. _Somebody shot a gun at a school? Un-fuckin-believable! To prove what? That the school wasn't safe?_

The gunshot had an unintended side effect – the fiery mob silenced their protest and ducked down; covering their heads. Roberto dashed into the direction of the noise while Tony escorted the two young children through the front doors.

A few minutes later, Roberto limped back empty handed. "The knee again," he complained. The shooter got away scot-free. The crowd, now uncomfortable with the violence, was easy to disperse. The children were safe for today. Not sure how long the truce would continue, two officers remained guarding the school while the others packed up the yellow saw horses. Someone will have to come back and search for that bullet.

**Javier**

Lunchtime! Javier picked up the white ceramic plate with a slab of white mystery meat covered in an inexplicable, gelatinous gray/brown slime. At least it came with tater tots. He selected chocolate milk, vanilla pudding, and a straw. After paying the Russian, cafeteria lady for his meal, he grabbed the silverware – or steelware anyway – from the perforated metal cylinders which doubled as cleaning vessels.

Searching around the cafeteria for a place to sit, he noticed a new table, positioned in the corner of the cafeteria, away from the other tables. On top was a placard with the word – "reserved". That was enough to establish the table as fair territory for Javier. He rested his tray on the new table, sat down, and took a long swig of chocolate milk.

Within moments, dark eyes blazing, the annoying guardian of the lunchroom, Mrs. Peabody, approached. Her thick glasses were supported by her abnormally large nose which often protruded into Javier's business. "You can't sit at this table. I think you will have a more enjoyable lunch with your classmates."

_In what world_? thought Javier. He considered a number of possible responses from compliance to downright hostility. In the end, he chose to ignore her. He cut another piece out of the white slice of meat and chewed. With a little effort, he discovered a hint of actual flavor. Mrs. Peabody started to lift up his tray and move it to another table.

"We invited him to eat with us," Lazarus said. He walked up from behind Javier and rested his tray on the 'reserved' table. Caleb followed immediately behind. "How's it going?" he asked Javier.

"I'm going to check with the principal about this," Mrs. Peabody said as she left in a huff.

"How did you guys swing your own private table?" Javier asked. "And look…" he pointed excitedly at Caleb's individually wrapped utensils, "you get plastic sporks."

"I guess they are worried we are going to 'infect' somebody."

"We get our own bathroom, too." Caleb added helpfully. "It used to be a teacher bathroom."

"Do you think I could try it?" Javier asked.

"Sure," Lazarus said, "Who would care?"

Mrs. Peabody would. It would be worth using it just to see her face. The three of them continued to chat about their favorite superheroes and other important elementary school topics. "You drink straight from the carton, why do you have the straw?" Lazarus asked Javier.

"It's for my pudding." As a way of demonstration, he unwrapped the straw, placed one end in the pudding and sucked from the other end. The pudding was pulled up through the straw with Javier's suction.

"That looks brilliant," Lazarus said. Lazarus and Caleb both decided to try the same trick with their own pudding with some success. Lazarus had trouble developing enough suction, but he thought it might be good exercise for his lungs.

Their conversation reached the subject of what activities they enjoy, Javier suggested soccer. He invited them to kick the ball with him after school. "But wait," Javier added, "We can't do that. I can't find my ball." _Where did I lose it?_

About that time, Raymond and his crowd left their tables to discard their trash. Their path carried them past the "reserved" table. "Hey look, Wheezer has a girlfriend." The boys laughed at the put down.

"You're just jealous," Javier said in retort. But they didn't hear him – they never heard him. "Effin' retards," he muttered under his breath. Caleb looked anxious.

Javier decided, for this moment to hold onto his temper. He steadied his destructive rage. For the first time in recent memory, he was enjoying his lunch. Then, he thought the better of it. It was already ruined – thanks to Raymond. He couldn't ignore the insult. He launched out of his chair and tackled Raymond from behind. Tray, utensils, dishes all went flying in a mass of schoolyard excess. Ceramic shattered against the tile.

"Javier!" he heard from across the cafeteria as Mrs. Peabody came running with those high heels clicking away on the tile floor. "You stop that right now!"

Mrs. Peabody, he could ignore, as he reloaded for another punch.

December 7, 1989

**Selkie**

The deep, wandering wound in Selkie's forearm was healing nicely. Exhilarated following her convalescence she made a fresh plate of scrambled eggs with curry for herself and Jane. She tasted the eggs … a little more curry maybe. Just the way Jane likes them. On the burner next to the eggs, she brewed a blend of Bhang and knotweed tea. On the third burner hash browns sizzled, with a little too much brown and not enough hash. Jane was going to enjoy a calming breakfast this morning.

As the eggs were completing their scramble, Jane wandered out of the hallway in her bathrobe and moccasins and took her seat at the Kitchenette. The mouth of Selkie's forearm serpent held the plate piled with food. She placed it on the table in front of Jane who responded with a pleasant "thank you."

After serving herself and pouring the tea, Selkie sat down across from Jane. "I like the new tattoo. I think it's your best work." She held her arm out; the scales glistened in the low Kitchen light. "It almost looks real. … How do you like the breakfast?"

Jane, with her eyes watering, answered, "That is a lot of curry powder."

"So you like it then?" Selkie asked eagerly.

Jane nodded with a weak smile. "Maybe a little less curry next time."

That satisfied, Selkie wriggled around on her seat – just playing with her breakfast. "Why haven't you ever been married?" she asked.

Jane frowned while swallowing her eggs. "I guess I just never found the right person."

"But you never even try. I've never seen you go on a date."

Jane stared out the kitchen window, introspectively, "I loved someone once, but he left … he's gone." Jane turned to face Selkie directly. "What's this about anyway? You don't date anyone either … at least not anyone on the mortal plane."

"You should be with Oberon. He's been in a foul temper. Someone needs to tame his anger. It should be you."

"I'm too grounded in reality to get caught up in your fantasy." She gestured with her fork. "Finish your eggs. We have to open the store."

"I'm not working the store today. I have other errands to do." Almost too casually Selkie added, "Maybe you're right. I should date someone on the material plane. Has Owen been around lately? He's about the only one I know."

Jane's composure turned irritated, "I want you to stay away from him. There is something not quite right with that boy."

"Uuugh," Selkie grumbled, "What do you mean? He seems fine to me."

Jane set down her fork and crossed her fingers in front of her. "You don't know as much as you think you do." Tears welled up from an ancient memory. Her words became faint and distant. "He hasn't been around the store anyway. I saw him on the street a few weeks ago … while you were away … he had a little girl with him." Jane settled back in her chair, trying to choose her words carefully. She set down her fork and took a sip from her tea. "Her eyes were vacant. I've seen that look before … I think she is being abused."

"By Owen?" Selkie asked. "Are you crazy? It doesn't matter. I need to speak with him. Then I'm heading back to help Finvarra."

"He bought poison for her … from the store. Stay away from him, and stay away from Lake Pueblo," Jane demanded. "At least until the solstice. Then we'll go together."

She tossed her dishes in the sink and wandered off back to her bedroom to get dressed for the day. Selkie cleaned up the dishes and washed off the stove. By the time she was complete, Jane had returned. They both headed down the stairs to open the store. Selkie grabbed her coat on the way down.

They turned on the store lights and unlocked the front door. "You know where he is, don't you?" Selkie said. Jane turned the sign around to read "open." Selkie donned her jacket and headed outside. Jane followed, trying to hold her on the front sidewalk. "Tell me where or I will search the entire city."

"Go ahead." Jane said. "Good luck. It's a big city." But her eyes betrayed her. While she spoke, they darted in the direction of smokestack that dominated the city skyline. That was enough of a hint for Selkie to start hunting.

**Owen**

Burrowed under the blankets Owen slept for two days. It was restful sleep with normal dreams. On the third day, he woke next to the slumbering Abby. When he rolled over his muscles shattered from brittle rigor. He found the stiffness oddly comforting – recognition that he was alive.

Rank and sweaty, Owen retreated to the bathroom to clean himself better than he had the other night. A few more gallons of water satisfied his thirst. His urine seemed fine … not too yellow. Owen mixed water from the sink and suds from his remaining soap to clean off the week's worth of soot. The frigid water sparked goose bumps on his arms and legs. His angry stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten in over a week. _Over a week – is that even possible_?

He grabbed his warm winter overcoat to venture outside, but the sleeves were covered in blood spatter. That would never do. Using the last of the remaining bleach he deliberately wiped off each of the little spots of blood. He took over an hour with his stomach complaining each moment. When he was done, the jacket was speckled with uneven discolored polka dots. He wasn't aiming to win any style competitions. The coat was warm, and that was enough.

Residual blood remained pooled on the floor and sprinkled around the crucibles, but further cleaning would have to wait until Owen purchased some more bleach. He abandoned the steel mill to Abby's quiet purring from her hibernation underneath the blankets. The latch on the door to the mill held – almost.

Snow, much grayer than Owen remembered from his childhood, covered the alleys and sidewalks. The city was transformed with the fresh covering. Despite the grayness, it somehow looked new … magical. Some of the storefronts were shoveled for a brief respite of the slush. Owen ignored the toe-numbing cold which quickly seeped through his canvas sneakers. He had a lot of errands to complete this morning – supplies, clothes, but first of all, food.

Without thinking, he tried the rear of the supermarket. He vaguely remembered battering the lock in an attempt open it. Scratch marks remained as evidence of his struggle. _I was going to ask Abby to smash the lock some night … how long ago was that?_

Failing to find food at the Dumpster, Owen found himself drawn to the tantalizing smell of the hotdog vendor. He wondered if he could afford just one of the meals. He felt around his pockets and found … a wallet of all things. _Where did that come from?_ He withdrew it from his back pants pocket and found it was loaded – over a hundred a fifty dollars. _Did I steal this?_

The license photograph brought back the memory. Charlie Langston, from Pueblo, born in 1959. He looked happy in the picture, younger. Owen lifted the picture out of the clear plastic cover and returned it to the wallet, face in. He a brief, sudden flash of a bloody hole in the back, right behind Charlie's head, but it was solid black.

In the mean time, the Pueblo gold rush was underway. $150 – what could he buy with that? Not just one, but two jumbo hotdogs and a steaming hot cup of cocoa.

With Abby-like suction Owen inhaled the hot dog, barely even tasting it. He reached for the second wiener and found only two empty, fluted paper wrappers. _Man, I don't even remember it_. Tempted to buy a third hot dog, Owen decided to let the first two settle and simply enjoyed the warm liquid pleasure of the cocoa.

On to Woolworth's – one of the few remaining stores Owen felt welcome, more or less. The store front was decorated with fake snowflakes, candy canes and wreaths. Flush with cash, Owen felt like he could splurge a little. He even grabbed a shopping cart in his optimism – the luxury of a cart felt like Rolls Royce excess, but it was fun pushing it around the brightly lit store. A faint remnant of childhood memories. They even had a Santa greeting children.

After loading up on bleach, soap, and Ramen noodles, Owen spent most of his time in the junior miss area of the store. The outfits were wonderful, much nicer than Abby was used to. He wanted to buy all of them, but she really didn't need a fur-lined sweatshirt. Instead he chose a select few items of a dark shade – that would help hide blood.

Along with clothes, Abby also needed a few pairs of underwear. Owen never bothered to ask what type she would like. The selection was a lot larger than he expected. He ignored a few awkward glances when he chose a pair of frilly panties, but he also attracted the attention of one of the inquisitive sales people. She had followed him around the store and became a little more assertive when he fingered through the underwear rack for the right size. "It's for my sister," he protested. His hands were still a little dirty_. Perhaps, I should have stayed away from white lace._

One more stop … the toy department … Christmas was coming. Several toys were awfully tempting. Transformers – he always wanted one of those. He ignored his own desires and after a lengthy search, he discovered the perfect present for Abby. He was so excited with the find, he wanted to give it to her today, but there was still more than two weeks until Christmas.

Several hours later, weighed down by his fresh purchases, Owen wandered back to the steel mill only to find the side door wide open. Inside he heard a quiet murmur from somebody other than Abby. With his heart pounding he raced up the stairs and was surprised to find a figure studying the drawings on the mill wall. He set the packages down and asked, "What are you doing here, Selkie?"

Her hair had grown in on the shaved side, and was, surprisingly sedate - a solid brownish-mauve color. About a dozen rings looped around the outside of her ear. She wore a hip-length navy blue peacoat with wooden buttons. "Did you draw these? These are incredible? Are they made out of blood?" She asked without taking her eyes off of the sketches.

"No, I don't even know what they are." Owen strolled over next to Selkie. "What does the pitchfork mean?"

"It's Ugartic, it's an ancient symbol for protection. And this one," she pointed to the T-shape with the circle above, "is an Egyptian Ankh with the 'all-seeing eye' centered above it. There are symbols from all over the world … Scythian, Parthian, even the Degar from Vietnam. You didn't answer me. Is this made out of blood?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Blood magic … very powerful and very dangerous." Selkie fingers played tenderly over the images. "You have to be very careful when using it. It can turn horribly wrong." She turned away from the drawings and looked toward Owen. With a delighted, engaging curiosity she asked, "Can I see her?"

"Who?" Owen glanced over at the empty mattress resting on the mill floor. Abby was gone. She must have moved to her bin while Owen was in the city. His eyes moved to the bin.

Selkie followed his glance. "Aah," she sighed and knowingly walked toward Abby's bin.

"Don't … you need to be careful."

"I just want to take a look." Staring over the precipice of the bin, Selkie stared at the pile of sheets and blankets.

Owen stood behind her, ready to intervene should anything go wrong. He didn't know why he was worried. If Selkie wanted to put herself in danger, that was her prerogative. His heart pounded in anticipation of Abby's frantic loss of control. Owen wasn't sure he could stop her, and he dreaded it.

Toto, the cat stood guard on the windowsill and hissed.

Owen drew in a breath and held in tight anticipation, he steeled his nerves for calm.

Selkie peeled back the layers of covers exposing Abby's restful, purring visage. She was curled up in a tight ball, her hands arranged in front of her gentle face. Selkie rubbed the back of her index finger over Abby's cheek. She remained mercifully at rest. "She's beautiful," Selkie said.

"Yes, she is," Owen whispered, straining not to wake her. And she was … when she was at peace like this. Owen could stare at her all afternoon. The tranquility ran through him, filling him, consuming him. It was impossible for Owen to consider her evil. A desire to live … a desire to eat ... these things can't be evil. But someone who helps her, he was most definitely evil. "Why are you here, Selkie?"

Selkie replaced the blanket over Abby's face. "I have news from the land of the Fey." She turned and jumped, startling Owen with the sudden movement. "Come with me." She grabbed onto Owen's hand and pulled.

"Can't you just tell me here? I don't want to leave her." One person found her way in to the mill. Owen would just as soon not leave Abby exposed right now.

Selkie pulled harder on Owen's hand, "I don't have the translation here. It's back at my place. Come on." She pulled him in a way that would brook no argument

**Javier**

"I can't believe you got into another fight today," his stepmother cried with tears of frustration. "This is the third day in a row."

Javier had just crossed under the transom from another challenging day at school when he was accosted by his mother's tears; snow dripped from his clothes and wet shoes. "Don't you care why I fight?" Javier asked. He hoped she would be proud of him for sticking to his guns … his principals.

"No, I don't want to hear it," she answered. "Violence is never the answer. There are always better choices. Turn the other cheek and all of that."

Javier dropped his backpack to the floor and turned around to go out the door. "Where do you think you are going, young man? You get back here right now," Aileen demanded.

Javier paused for a second, turned around, and said more calmly than he thought possible, "I'm making a better choice." The pronouncement of peace, betrayed his inner turmoil. There was no peace at school. He hoped to find a little understanding at home.

He picked up a stick and started bashing snow off of hedges. He tread a fine line between boredom and staying out of trouble. Temptation to vent his frustration was everywhere. An old man and his aluminum walker, stray dogs roaming the streets, and the ever present plate glass. All were enticing snowball targets.

Then he remembered his soccer ball. This was a great excuse to search for it. He had looked all the normal places: the garage, the backyard, his bedroom, but couldn't find it anywhere. He tried to recall the last time he played with it. Finally, it came to him … the steel mill parking lot. The last time he played soccer there he forgot to collect the ball. He was too busy running away from that scary guy. With luck the ball will still be buried somewhere in the corner of the lot.

Javier headed, with twig in hand, to search for that lost ball.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

The Concentrated Blood of Fate

**December 5, 1988**

**Owen**

Owen walked with Selkie through the wintry streets of Pueblo. Lights decorated with silver, metallic snowflakes heralded the coming Christmas. The real thing, in the form of flurries, fell from the overcast sky.

"Do you ever think about fate?" Selkie asked him.

_Not if I can help it._ "Not really. It sounds so final … like we don't have any choices."

"That isn't how I understand fate. Fate determines who we meet and when we meet them, but we still have room for free will. Some people think that the world is this mystical tangle of threads woven by a divine being, like the Moirae or the Norns. The weave is a resplendent tapestry of creation; when the threads cross are important moments in our lives like new acquaintances or crucial decisions."

Owen considered the idea, but he did not understand the implication. An important moment usually involved finding food or a place to sleep.

Selkie studied Owen to see if her idea was taking hold. When he didn't respond, she continued, "Do you think it is fate that I met you in this specific place and time so that I can help you? Or … do you think that you would find another Selkie in whatever city or town you were in just when you needed me?"

_I doubt there is another Selkie out there somewhere_. "I don't know. I never really thought about it. I can't believe there is some divine power weaving this life of mine." _If there was, maybe they should lose their job. _ "But what makes you think this is a key moment in my life? It seems very similar to many moments over the past few years."

She intertwined her arm in Owen's. She tugged him harder. Leaning so far forward, Owen thought he might be keeping her from falling over. "It's just a feeling I get sometimes. This is a special time in our lives – I know it. But it is not the same as destiny. Destiny is preordained – like you have no control. With fate, your threads may be intertwined, but you make your own decisions. We are defined by the choices we make." Her glowing, genuine smile radiated a joy of life. "That's what I think anyway. That's what brings me peace – the idea that tomorrow brings new choices. I love fate! The freedom." She shrugged her shoulders. "Here we are!"

They arrived at the front door of the Blazing Crescent. Rather than enter that way, they walked around through the back door and up the rickety wooden interior stairs leading to their second story apartment. The stairs were worn down in the center from years of foot traffic. "How long have you lived here?" Owen wondered.

"This is the first home I ever had."

Selkie hung her coat on a hook at the top of the stairs and Owen followed suit. He glanced around at the dark, peeling wallpaper in the family room. It was a night time forest pattern of tall pine trees. An image of the full moon glowed in one corner and stars twinkled all around. On the edges sat a dark green sofa which sagged in the center along with its matching love seat. The coffee table and end tables comprised an ash brown, distressed surface. One table held a small TV complete with a four foot long pair of wire rabbit ears.

As old as everything was, the apartment had a lived in look. Electric baseboard heating clicked on, spewing waves of heat into the room. This was a home … a home where someone spent their entire lives. Owen missed this type of secure, dependable comfort.

"Your place looks nice," Owen said. He followed her into the Kitchen.

"Thanks. Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?" Selkie asked. She started getting pots out of the cabinets and scoured the pantry for food possibilities.

"I don't want to be any trouble." Owen answered. He was very hungry. Hot dogs were a long forgotten memory.

Selkie pulled out a box from the cabinet and set it on the stove. "How about macaroni and cheese?"

"Is it Kraft?"

Selkie nodded, "What else is there?" She filled a pot with water and began to boil it.

Owen walked around the Kitchen area while she cooked the noodles. "Is it just you and Jane here?"

"Yeah, our father bought the store not long after I was born. My mother was already gone so it was just the three of us. About five years ago, my father left. It's been the two of us ever since."

She was a little like Owen that way. He worried about his mother all alone … sometimes he wondered if she noticed that he was missing. _What was her fate?_ Owen knew in his heart that it wasn't that treacherous priest.

After a few minutes, Selkie deposited a bowl of noodles in front of Owen and one for herself. She sat across from him on the intimate table for two. She wore a beige tank top, exposing her entire arm. This was the first time Owen saw her decoration up close. He puzzled over the tattoo. "What's that on your arm?"

"This?" Selkie laughed. She had a staccato Woody Woodpecker style laugh. "It's my serpent." She placed her elbow on the table and formed her fingers into the shape of a head. "Tempting, isn't it?" She made a little slither sound and the hand jutted forward and struck Owen in the upper arm.

"Ouch!" Owen said; more from surprise than real pain. Selkie laughed even harder and the snake struck a second time. "Cut it out." Owen protested.

"Okay ... okay … ya big baby. Would you like some more macaroni?"

Owen was surprised to discover that his bowl was completely empty. "No thanks," he said politely. A furious stomach rumble gave away his white lie. He thought he could eat a couple of boxes on his own.

"It's no trouble." Without waiting for any further protest, she carried his bowl over to the stove, refilled it with more noodles, and returned it to the table in front of Owen.

Selkie studied Owen thoughtfully as he engulfed the second bowl. The noodles disappeared nearly as quickly as the first serving, but at least he remembered this one. He considered licking the cheese off of the bottom of the bowl, but thought better of it under her scrutiny.

"You have beautiful eyes," she said.

Embarrassed, Owen averted his eyes and simply said, "Thank you," The warmth in his cheeks was not from his meal. He was sure somewhere under his beard, he was bright pink. "That was really good."

"Would you like to clean up or take a shower or anything? We have hot water."

_I must look really dirty._ He thought he had cleaned up pretty well in the sink back at the mill. A warm shower did sound tempting, but he was unnerved by the intimacy shown by Selkie. He tried to sniff himself without being too obvious – no apparent odor. He decided against the shower. "I could use the bathroom," he said.

"Don't be embarrassed," Selkie said. She grabbed Owen's hand and inspected it … turning it over and tracing the life line with her finger. The skin was cracked and callused from wear; dirt traced the lines in his palm. "We don't get many guests up here." She gained some strange enlightenment. "This is a good hand," she said. "The bathroom is down the hallway." She motioned to the hall which began where the family room and Kitchen came together.

Owen found the bathroom and took care of business. Covered in white ceramic tile, the bathroom was tiny with the shower, toilet and sink all wedged together. A small bowl of scented soap rested on the toilet. Owen cleaned up as best he could. Scalding hot water ran over his hands for as long as he could stand it. He left Selkie a little gift of dirt on the towel after drying his hands.

On his way back he peeked in the two bedrooms. The larger, neat and tidy, bedroom contained an ancient, queen size bed with four wooden posts. The second bedroom, with papers and clothes strewn about contained a smaller sleigh bed. Just like the mill, free hand drawings covered the walls. Owen was surprised to see a face that looked like his. It was a little creepy, but at least it was drawn out of charcoal, mostly.

"I guess you only have two bedrooms," he said upon arriving back in the Kitchenette. Wishfully he added, "There's no room for Abby and I."

"You might be able to use the sofas," Selkie said. "But I don't think Jane would appreciate it."

"Did you and Jane share a room when you were younger?"

"No, we always had separate rooms." Even as she said this, Selkie seemed to appreciate the incongruity.

It was just small talk before they got down to the reason for the visit. For some reason, the bedrooms bothered Owen, but it didn't matter. His father would never have been so generous as to buy a house without a bedroom for him. Now that his hunger was satisfied, he thought it should be time to get down to the task at hand. "Didn't you say that you had a message from your husband?"

"Funny thing about that – I'm not really sure who gave me the message. It might have been my husband or it might have been the black dove. I couldn't really tell. But I think it is important."

"Well then, what is it? Have you discovered a cure?" With a relatively full belly, Owen was growing a little impatient.

Selkie lifted Owen's hand and grasped it. She rubbed it with intensity while staring down at the hand away from Owen's eyes. She spoke with a whisper, "I am frightened for you … you are in so much danger."

"That's it; that's the message?"

"I'm serious. You need to be very careful. Do you have your rice with you?" Owen nodded. He pulled the baggie out of his pocket to show it to Selkie. She pulled a matching baggie out of her pocket. "I have mine, too. Keep it with you at all times, you may need it. I can't believe it was random chance that we meet. We were fated to come together; you need the prayer that I'm going to give you. The shadow of death lies across your path."

"Let me see if I understand … you brought me all the way here to give me a message that I need to be careful because I'm in danger? I already knew that. Just walking the streets of Pueblo is dangerous."

"You are so funny," Selkie chuckled. "You don't need a bag of rice to walk the streets of Pueblo … that isn't the message. Wait here just a minute and I'll get the translation." Selkie jumped up and jogged down the short hallway to her bedroom.

She was gone for several minutes. Owen decided to clear the dishes from the table, rinse them in the sink, and placed them in the dishwasher. He checked the pot that Selkie used – there were a few white pieces of macaroni left. He picked them out and ate them.

W_hat was taking her so long? _He overheard her throwing papers around her room, like she was searching for something.

With nothing else to do, he studied the pictures on the wall. The picture first just looked like a grouping of pastel colors. As he stared at it, an image of an angel surrounded by two intertwining snakes formed a cross-shape. Above the angel was a golden fortress in the clouds.

"Do you like it?" Selkie asked startling Owen. She had several sheets of paper in her hands. "I drew it myself. It's how I see Finvarra."

"It's nice … did you find the message?"

She waved a couple of sheets of paper in front of him. "It took a long time to translate. I hope I got it right."

Owen joined her at the kitchen table. The sheets of paper were covered in symbols and words of a language Owen could not understand. Cross outs and doodles suggested many failed attempts at the translation. "I wish there was a convenient Faerie/English translation dictionary. Usually I'm pretty good at languages. I had to find the right meter and rhyme. That was the real challenge."

"Who cares about the meter and rhyme?" Owen asked.

Looking stunned, Selkie replied as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "The message is more than just words. It's in the language of the Faerie. It won't work unless you penetrate the complexion of the rhythm. Let's see … here it is.

_To clean the heifers blood, the bowels, the hide_

_Destroy the serpent stain that dwells inside_

_Witness the uncoiling faint wisp of smoke_

_Pray dear Paraclete, Eleazar invoke"_

"Well, what does that mean?" Owen asked.

"Magic," Selkie shrugged, looking surprised at his response. "I'm not sure what it means, but that was just an introduction. It sounds like you need to start a fire and say a prayer to Eleazar. I don't think it is that important. Now be quiet until I am finished.

"V_essel of grace restores the body blest_

_Renews the life of the loved one distressed_

_Bring forth the fire, purify the taint_

_Consume the concentrated blood of a saint"_

Owen thought she might be finished now. "How important is that fire? I don't like the sound of that. You don't think that I have to be tested in fire for the spell to work do you?"

"Who knows how these chants work?" Selkie answered. "Maybe you will be tested in fire, or maybe you need a fire to remove spectral toxins in the air." It sounded something like some of the passages he unearthed in the library.

Selkie leafed through her papers, found additional passages, and continued with the recitation. "Here is the rest," she said.

"_Bind the flame in a wool robe of scarlet_

_Destroy Lilith, reigning Queen, the harlot_

_Convey the unclean, darkness' bitter strife_

_Quench the fire; bathe in the river of life_

_Hyssop aspergill, a stalk from the copse_

_Scale the refuge, mine the essence of hope_

_Seven times sprinkle the oil, seven strokes_

_Courage of faith despoils the devil's yokes_."

"That's it that's all there is," Selkie said. "So what do you think?"

"Well that's much clearer now." Owen said sarcastically. "Well, it's a place to start. What do you think it means?"

"I was hoping you knew." Selkie leaned back into her chair with her eyes closed and her hands resting open-palmed on her lap. After a few moments she said, "I think we need to get a few things for a potion or spell, but I'm not really sure what."

"This is fate, right? Maybe I need to find one of those other Selkie's in one of those other towns. Do you know of anybody I can turn to?"

Selkie considered the question and shook her head. "Just Jane," she said.

The Kitchen intimacy started to make Owen feel claustrophobic. He stood up and started pacing between the Kitchen and the family room. He had tried stranger things than this poem. "Start with what we do know. Is there anything in that poem that makes any sense to you at all?"

"Well hyssop is clear enough; we should have some down in the store. The robe of scarlet shouldn't be too difficult – you need a red wool robe. It talks about using it to bind the flame."

"Do you thing these flames are supposed to be from something magical? – a special wood, maybe like Ash or Oak." He was thinking of a wooden stake.

"The ancients usually used wood from fig, walnut, or pine; but none of this was required. I would think if it mattered what the wood was, then the poem would say it." Selkie continued meditating in her chair while answering. Owen found this practice unnerving. Selkie asked, "What about the concentrated blood of a saint? Where do you think we can find that?"

"Is that something you sell in your store?" Owen leaned against the wood pillar between the family room and the Kitchen. "I didn't know that you could concentrate blood. I'm sure I learned somewhere that blood congeals."

Without opening her eyes Selkie said, "I don't know how to find the concentrated blood of a saint. Maybe Jane can help us."

Owen's back was turned to the stairs leading up to the family room, but he heard the unsteady creaking of the stairs. "Owen's right. Blood congeals, it doesn't concentrate. I can't believe it is that important. Selkie just used 'concentrated' because it has the right number of syllables."

"How was the store today?" Selkie asked. She ran over to Jane and gave her a quick hug. Jane did not return the affection and Selkie retreated to her seat at the table.

"Fine – 20% better than last year. Sales are picking up a little which is a good sign. I need a few different stories. Madame Blavatsky just doesn't sell the goods like she used to." Jane sighed. "I'm glad to see that you obeyed my instructions to avoid Owen."

Selkie leaned forward in her chair defiantly. "You didn't obey me either. I told you to not be such a grumpy grouch. I guess we're even."

Owen thought he should take the moment to interject a question, "Jane, do you have some saint's blood or essence of hope?"

Jane stared blankly at Owen, giving him a frosty reception. "Sure, right behind my black orchid and next to my moon drops." She paused to see if the reference missed them, which it did. "These things don't exist. You can't get blood from a saint … they're already dead. And the essence of hope? That sounds a lot like catching wind."

Owen was a little disappointed at Jane's assessment. "Maybe it means something else," he said. "Like a symbol of something. These things can't always be taken literally … right?" Owen could not think of anything. He thought it might be a lot easier than catching the wind. "Could you try to figure out what they mean? Don't you have references or something?"

"I have to head back to rescue my husband, but I'm sure Jane could help," Selkie answered.

"Selkie is staying right here," Jane said. With an irritated expression she asked Owen, "Where is your little girl friend?"

"Abby? She's sleeping." Owen glanced out the small Kitchen window and realized the sun was beginning to set. Her thoughts stirred in the back of his. "Shoot! She'll be waking soon. I've been here a lot longer than I thought. I have to go." He headed toward the stairs and grabbed his overcoat. "Thanks for everything. Please try to find those references."

"I'll walk you out," Selkie said. She followed Owen down the stairs. Instead of heading out, she headed through the opposite door, through a cluttered storage area, and into the back of the Blazing Crescent. Owen stood quietly at the door, wondering what Selkie was doing. She returned with a small, potted cactus and several brown twigs. She placed them gently into a paper bag with handles and handed it to Owen.

"What are these?" Owen asked.

"The twigs are hyssop stalk." She sniffed at the opening of the bag. "It smells like cinnamon. I hope the prayer doesn't need fresh hyssop. We don't keep those in stock. The cactus is a moonflower. Consider that my Christmas present to you … or my solstice present, whichever you prefer. If you set it outside, it will bloom during a full moon. I thought you might like it considering your other friend."

"That's very sweet. And thanks for chant. I don't have any idea what it means, but maybe we can figure it out."

They shut and looked the door to the store and left out through the back door into the alley. "Remember what I said … keep your rice with you at all times. You may need it." She tip-toed up and kissed Owen on his very pink cheek and gave him a bear hug. "Be careful."

After repeating is thanks for her help, Owen ran all the way back to the steel mill only to find the side door wide open again. _Dammit!_

**Tony Sacco**

The furor had quieted down at the elementary school to a dull roar. A good twenty or so marchers protested at the sawhorse barrier, but their demonstration remained peaceful. As near as Tony could determine, they were just wasting their time, but he guarded the school just the same … always wary of possible gunfire.

After his afternoon stint at the school, he returned to the station to receive his evening shift assignment. Each day, the department scheduled a patrol route for each of the officers to roam around the city. Needing some Christmas bonus overtime, Tony checked in with Nancy to receive his second shift patrol duty.

In the office, a crowd of people surrounded a young man on crutches. "I see Jesse's back. What's all the fuss about?"

"He's a hero, of course. Everybody wants to talk to him about his adventure," Nancy said.

_Hero? He was a little too eager and even more foolish_. "Aren't they concerned about infection?"

"What? Oh no, there's nothing to worry about with him."

_Everybody avoids me like I have the plague_. "I'll give him a 'welcome back' later," Tony said with a bitter taste. "What should I be watching out for this evening?"

Nancy handed Tony his route paperwork. "We have a missing person … A Billy Scott. His parents reported him missing since Thanksgiving."

"Do you have a picture?" Nancy nodded and handed him a high school yearbook photograph. "Hmm … I think I know him. I have an idea where to look. I'll let you know if I discover anything."

Tony ignored the proscribed route and drove directly to the shelter. Inside he found a few residents enjoying an early dinner. Seated quietly at one table was a young couple. One of them had a bandage on his left ear and a heavy blanket around his shoulders. He still wore the same clothes from Thanksgiving. "How are you doing, Billy?"

"Fine," he answered taking a forkful of stew.

Tony walked over to their table and stood at a relaxed attention. This stance usually let people know he was serious. "Your parents are looking for you."

"They can keep looking as far as I'm concerned. I'm not going home." Billy had brochures from the Army, Navy and Marines sitting in front of him. "I've been sleeping here until I sort things out. I'm joining the military. I think maybe the Marines."

His skin was pale and the fork was shaking. His eyes were glazed and bloodshot. "You don't look so fine," Tony said.

"He has a cold, that's all," Gabriella said. She put her arm around him to steady him. "He just needs some rest."

"I think he has more than a cold," Tony said. He looked closely at the bandage on the ear. Brown stains dotted the outside. "Have you been changing the bandage and cleaning your wound?"

"Your wife didn't say anything about doing those things," Billy said defiantly.

_Was I ever this stupid?_ "No, she told you to go see a doctor."

"I can't afford a doctor."

Tony knelt down next to Billy and peeled back the bandage. Billy winced in pain, but let Tony continue the examination. The odor was overpowering. Pus wept from the ear and dripped onto his shoulder. "That's disgusting," Tony whispered. He replaced the bandage over the ear. "I hope you can afford the hospital, because that's where we're going, now." Tony stood up and tugged on Billy's arm. "I'm not sure what kind of argument you had with your parents, but they are worried about you … I'm sure they will listen to anything you have to say from a hospital bed. C'mon, let's go."

"Will he be back in time to walk me back to the university?" Gabriella asked. "I don't like walking home alone." She sighed. "I know I'm supposed to be strong and independent. I just don't feel safe on the streets right now."

"When do you need to get back to the university?"

"About eleven."

"That's about when my shift ends. I'll stop by and give you a lift. Tony's personal taxi service." He motioned to Billy to follow him. "Grab your things, and let's go."

From the police car, Tony notified dispatch with his findings, and let them know to contact Billy's parents. Billy sat listlessly in the passenger seat. "What are you running from, Billy? I know you didn't tell the whole truth about the mugging the other day."

"I'm not running from anything," Billy said. "I just didn't like the person who I was. I'm trying to become someone different."

"Everybody finds times in their lives when they don't like themselves very much. You might find that your parents understand."

"Not mine," Billy said.

Tony took the lazy route to the hospital – without his lights blaring and pulled into the emergency entrance. Aileen was staying home with Javier this evening. He wondered who was working at her post.

Inside the stark white ER lounge, the tiny old TV blared Peter Jennings evening report. "Sit here & enjoy the news. Looks like there was an earthquake in Armenia. I'm not even sure where that is. Why don't you find out for me?" He deposited Billy on the orange plastic sofa and spoke to Harriet, the on-duty nurse. As he was reviewing information for Billy's admission, two harried parents entered the waiting area and greeted Billy with anxious tears – not sure whether to embrace him or scold him. In the end, they decided on the hug.

_Another job well done_. Tony can head off to the rest of his tour of the city in the lonely exile of his patrol car.

**Abby**

Abby slept fitfully, stirring and waking throughout her slumber. Her sleep was choked by terrors just like each and every day. Owen, sleeping next to her, provided a respite from the nightmares - soothed her spirit and allowed her to return to sleep. Other times, she felt alone and isolated in the cavernous room. These times she retreated to the comforting restrictions of the bin. She grabbed the blankets and sunk into the prison of her dreams.

Abby did not trust herself to tell Owen how vital he was to her. He took care of her, watched over her, and purified her. Yet, of all the delights she received from him, the most necessary was his ability to calm these beastly visions. The terrifying dreams quieted the moment she felt his steady presence. When Owen was lost in the dungeon of his own sanity she was also lost; her dreams had become so vivid. It paralyzed Abby to know how desperately she needed him – how dependent she had become. She didn't know how to hold onto him, and she wasn't sure she could let him go.

He was out there … somewhere. She could sense a struggle to survive that paralleled her own. She knew his determination to carry on - to endure. This certainty provided a diversion that helped her drift back to sleep in the snug shelter of the bin and face the nightmares once again.

Once, upon stirring, she smelled another person in the mill. The childlike presence was curiously unthreatening. Abby's hunger stirred from the scent of fresh blood, but it wasn't time … she suppressed her appetites. Abiding placidly under her blankets, Pera wrestled the gnawing pangs. Owen had returned. _He's here … nearby._ As she drifted off to sleep, she felt a strange finger caress her cheek. Through his thoughts or his actions, Owen would let her know if she were in danger. He was calm and so was she.

The sun set and Abby woke fully from her slumber. This was her favorite time of year … the days and their accompanying dreams were shorter. Under her blankets, she knew that Owen had left her once again. But somebody else was inside the mill. She remained under her covers listening, trying to make sense of what was going on. He seemed unaware of her, but she could hear his laughter.

Before long, Abby grew more inquisitive. She moved the blankets away from her face and peeked above the lip of the bin. He was in the far corner of the mill with his back to her. His arm was moving to and fro, like he was poking at something. Her nostrils flared from the sweetness of the blood. He was young and fresh. She craved the nourishing fluid.

She pushed herself out of the bin and crawled closer to his location. His hearing was deaf to her soft, predator footsteps. She prowled silently paying close attention to his actions … ready to pounce should he realize her presence.

Rather than attack, she watched his play. Young, even younger than Owen when she first met him, he looked harmless. He had a small animal cornered, and he was poking at it – teasing it. It couldn't get away. She heard its angry squeak along with the boy's laughter. Finally, she worked up the courage to ask, "What are you doing?"

The boy jumped and braced himself against the wall. He faced Abby and trembled. A rat scurried away, but was quickly pounced on by their resident black cat. When faced with the cat's fury the rat didn't stand a chance. Toto carted his lifeless body down the stairs into the shadows.

Abby grew angry with the boy. He just stood there quivering. He was not much of a threat, but he was an invasion, "I asked you what you were doing," she insisted. "Can't you speak?"

"N...nothing," he stammered. In his one shaking hand he held a small twig. The stick fell to the floor, but he made no motion to pick it up. He wore a gray jacket with a raised hood. His skin and hair were dark – almost like the natives that she remembered from her childhood, but even darker. Her fear diminished and her hunger quelled for the moment, she began to wonder about this boy. As a child, she remembered a simple man who behaved like a village idiot in Louisburg. He wandered the streets looking for handouts in exchange for laughter. This boy reminded her of that man.

"Are you stupid? What is wrong with you?" she asked.

With that question his expression showed some intelligence as his brows furrowed in anger. "No!" he said. "I'm not stupid. Are you?"

She ignored the taunt. "You're not supposed to be here. I think you need to leave."

Perplexed, the boy thought for a moment, "The other guy, the one with the beard, said I could come in. It's cold outside."

Abby wondered about this. It didn't seem like something Owen would do – permitting someone to enter the mill. But she was unaccustomed to people lying to her, and this boy seemed to know Owen's description. Relaxing a little, she inquired, "What's your name?"

"Javier. What's yours?"

"Abby."

"Do you live here Abby?" Javier was gaining confidence with his surroundings and began to walk around. "What are these pictures on the wall? They look like caveman drawings or something."

"They are supposed to protect me … from invasion. I guess I need to draw them a better." Of course for that she would need more blood. She had the sweet blood supply right here, but she would wait for Owen to return to see what he has to say about Javier.

"It's really cold in here. Can't you turn up the heat?"

"If it's so cold in here, you can go back outside." Abby had just about enough of this boy. "I like it cold. You can look around, but I don't think I want to talk to you anymore." Then she added, almost out of habit, "Just so you know, we can't be friends."

"That's all right. I don't have any friends," Javier said.

Javier explored the mill with Abby waiting quietly in the wings. He seemed to enjoy his exploration, but there really was nothing for him to find. At one point, he found Owen's belongings and searched through in his bags. Abby let out a low rumbling growl. That startled him and set him on the straight and narrow.

Finally, Abby felt Owen getting closer. His hunger was satisfied; he had eaten. He was running … maybe he sensed her doubt. He entered the mill through the side door. She heard him say with a strong air of disgust, "Dammit, this door is open again." The door closed against the darkening cloudy sky and Owen climbed up the stairs. She smiled when she felt his muscle stiffness. Owen was home.

Her joy turned to a rising sense of anger and resentment when Owen reach the top of the mill stairs and set down his package. "What's he doing here?" Owen asked. It wasn't truly her anger; Owen's anger pulsed through her.

Javier stood still on the edge of the mill floor, almost hiding behind one of the crucibles. His fear had returned along with Abby's growl. "He said that you told him it was okay."

"No way," Owen said. Owen marched over to Javier and grabbed him by the arm. Javier struggled against Owen's pull, throwing a punch in his direction. But Owen was too strong for him, "Get out of here you little brat." He pulled him forcefully to the mill entrance. Javier tripped down the stairs and fell to the ground with Owen's fierce shove.

Abby witnessed the altercation from the top of the stairs. While lying on the floor, Javier started heaving for air. "I can't breathe," he gasped.

Abby thought, at first, that Javier might be faking like the lie he told before. But Owen's anger turned to concern. "Are you all right?" Owen asked. He knelt next to Javier and jilted his arm.

Javier shook his head, but even that was a struggle. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a metal cylinder. He shook it a few times, shoved it into his mouth, and pressed hard. Abby became curious at the mist which sprayed out of the cylinder. She had never seen anything like this before. She could not remember ever struggling to breathe. The flow of air into her lungs was pleasure, but she could survive without it.

Slowly, the boy's breathing returned to normal. He continued to rest on the floor, just inside the door. His eyes remained closed. "I'm okay," he said. "It's just asthma." He sat up and began to regain his breath.

"In that case, you can leave now," Owen said. He gave Javier an angry ominous stare. Abby echoed his acrimony with an angry purr. "And don't come back. Don't tell anybody we're here. I would hate to see that breath leave you forever." That threat was a little brutal for Owen, but it was effective. Javier left the mill with a look of uncertainty, and Owen replaced the sledgehammer holding the door latch in place.

"I'm sorry I let him in Owen. He seemed okay."

Owen placed his arms around Abby and held her tight. "Don't worry about him. Did he see anything that he shouldn't have?"

"I don't think so," Abby said.

"I think we gave him a scare. He looks pretty easy to frighten. I'll try to keep him away from now on." But Abby could sense his unease. This was the danger of understanding what he was feeling. Owen was not as confident as he pretended.

December 8, 1988

**Jane Mosi**

Selkie prepared for another excursion at the back door to the Blazing Crescent. Loading supplies on her bike took most of her morning fighting with her sister the rest. Her winter gear packed away, she wore her Columbia down parka and thermal underwear. Jane stood at the threshold, still wearing her pajamas despite the late hour, trying to will Selkie to stay home. "Please, I need you to stay here. You've barely been home at all."

"Get yourself dressed, you need to open the store." Selkie threw her backpack over her shoulders. "I know this isn't important to you, but it is imperative to me. This is my husband we're talking about. I have to help him."

"I forbid it!" Jane cried. "Legally, you are my responsibility." Stepping off of the back step, her slippers soaked in the melting slush. She approached Selkie and grabbed her by the arm. "That lake is evil. It has always been evil. You need to stay away."

Selkie ripped her arm out of Jane's grip. With an exasperated sigh, she said, "You're not the boss of me. I can do what I want … what I think is right. It's not like you're my mother or anything."

Jane reacted quickly and violently. Almost out of pure instinct her hand swept across Selkie's cheek with a loud smack. Jane regretted it almost immediately. With a stunned look on her face Selkie felt her cheek. "You hit me," she said. "I can't believe you struck me."

Jane stood there shaking in fear and worry. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

Selkie loaded her last parcel on the back of her bike. "I'm going." She was the better person. She walked back over to Jane and gave her a quick hug. She had a bag of white rice in her hands and stuffed it into the pocket of Jane's bathrobe. "Try to find that information for Owen. He needs to know how to find the concentrated blood of a saint and the essence of hope. Above all remember this ..." she held onto Jane's shoulder and looked her straight in the eyes. "Keep your rice with you at all times."

Selkie walked back over to her bike, pushed up the kickstand, and rolled the bike out of the alley. Jane said, "It's going to be cold out there. Try to stay warm." Jane mumbled a quick prayer for her safety at that evil place.

"I will," Selkie said. She was smiling, but a tear dripped down her cheek.

"When will I see you again?" Jane asked.

"I'll see you at the Solstice ceremony, of course. I'll already be at the park. Tell Rufus that I can't wait to see him."

Jane waved goodbye as she rode away. Selkie was going to remember this sorry image of her standing in the wet parking lot in her bathrobe. With Selkie leaving on such bad terms, Jane didn't think she had it in herself to open the store today. A day in front of the TV soap's was about all the energy she had. _What the hell am I supposed to do with this rice?_ She wondered. _Does Selkie think I'm getting married?_


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Ascent of Evil

December 14, 1988

**Jane Mosi**

Like Medusa's hair, tentacles from his amputated wrists snaked toward Jane. Unable to gain any purchase against the rope which bound him to the silt-ridden floor, his reach stopped just short of her. The weight of the crate full of rocks was simply too great. Dark, grainy sediment swirled around his decaying body and small mouth bass swam by snapping at morsels that settled from the surface.

Jane floated a short distance in front of her father. A murky echo of a silent scream seeped through the water. With each breath, muck and mire flowed in and out of Jane's lungs. She gazed longingly at his bulging eyes and wished for him to reach out to her. Veins, tendons, and bone complied. Bile trickled out of his mouth and nose. _I'll never get that out of the upholstery. I'll have to leave the truck._

Above her, a crystal figurine in the shape of her sister hovered just beneath the surface. Gossamer strands of Selkie's hair drifted behind her glowing, luminous form. She twirled with the beauty of a music box dancer. When she reached just the right angle, sunlight struck her image and refracted into a thousand brilliant colors.

Longingly, Jane floated toward the welcoming arms of her father. The animated tissue from his arms stretched toward her, constricting slowly around her neck. She welcomed the attention, but the suffocation caused a struggle; thrashing her arms wildly trying to free herself from his grasp. She shoved him away.

With that push the tether broke loose from its mooring and he rushed upward to the surface. _Please, don't go_. Her father, the one she loved, was drifting away.

He rose toward the glistening, transparent Selkie and away from Jane. She stared daggers at her sister. _I'm right here. I'm the one who loves you; why do you need Selkie? _Jane was horrified when his carcass struck her and shattered the crystal into a million pieces. As the shards twirled downward in the lake water, she was bathed in the luminescent rays of red, yellow, and blue. Pieces rained down upon her slicing her skin with a million tiny gashes. Her father broached the surface, bobbing up and down like a cork. He was gone, lost to her forever. _Why did I use the belladonna?_ The hateful, angry lake suffocated her wail.

Rrrriiiinnnnggg. _What the hell is that ringing?_ Ratatatat, her heart thundered. The telephone startled Jane from her lament. _Debits to the left … debits to the left._ Trying to remember where she was, she found herself waking up on the sofa, clothed in the same bathrobe for the past week, with the television blaring. Rrrriiiinnnnggg. Gasping for air, she pulled herself out of her slumber and wobbled over to the kitchen phone. It ran a few more times before she reached it. "Hello," she said into the receiver.

"Jane, is that you?" Jane nodded, oblivious to the fact that the person on the other end couldn't hear her nod. "It's Rufus."

"Rufus," Jane gasped. Again, for a moment, she couldn't breathe, like she was still submerged. "Please, I need your help. He's coming after me."

"Who's coming after you? Are you all right?"

Jane rubbed the fog from her vision and tried to make sense of her surroundings. She was in her kitchen, far from the evils of Lake Pueblo. She glanced at the clock above the kitchen. Ten-thirty; it's a late morning already. "Nobody. It was just a dream." Jane drew in measured breaths savoring the sweet taste of the air. "I'm sorry for the scare. How are you doing this morning?"

"I was just checking up on you. I heard a rumor the store hasn't been open for a few days." That was an understatement. Jane had locked herself in isolation with Selkie's departure, confined to the one-way companionship of the television.

"I'm fine," Jane insisted. "I've been a little under the weather, but I'm opening up today." While she was talking she balanced the receiver in the crook of her neck and began the preparation of coffee. With Selkie gone, she was free to feed her addiction. Something really strong will be needed this morning.

"Aren't you supposed to open up at ten?"

"I'm running a little late, but maybe within ten minutes." Jane looked at her reflection in the door handle of the refrigerator. She patted her hair, but its unkempt springiness was worse than she expected. Even with the little sliver of an image, Jane could tell that her bed-head will require more than ten minutes of fuss.

"Why don't you and Selkie stop by this evening for dinner? Elizabeth and I would be happy to entertain you." His voice was tinged with concern.

"Okay," Jane said. "But it is just me. Selkie is … um … she is back at Lake Pueblo." The mystical, refreshing odor of coffee percolated through the kitchen.

"Aha, I see. That explains a lot. Would you like me to come get you when the store closes?"

"No, that won't be necessary. I can walk." She put her hand into the bathrobe pocket … rice? _Why do I have a baggy of rice? _She placed it on the kitchen counter next to the coffee pot.

"Okay, I'll see you then." With the click of the phone, Jane wandered off to the bathroom to rid herself of a week's worth of crud crusting her teeth. That alone will help her approach a day solo in the Blazing Crescent.

Following her excursion to the bathroom, Jane refilled her coffee mug from the fresh brew. The TV was still blaring – Bob Barker of The Price is Right. _That is far too much for that wingback chair._ _Don't you understand how to bid?_ The fourth bidder should always win. Just one more show. She found herself settling into the couch, pulling the blanket over her torso. She took a sip of coffee, leaned back, and escaped into someone else's life.

**Tony Sacco**

Tony enjoyed the peaceful, introspective calm of his solitary ride in the police car. No silent prejudicial stares, no angry crowds, and no family battles … just Tony waging the battle of Pueblo with his weapon of choice – flashing red and blue strobe lights. It was a beautiful day. The city enjoyed Indian summer-style sunshine in the low 50's. The recent snow was a melted memory.

Cruising past the Loaf 'n Jug on Thatcher Street, Tony noticed a group of five or six kids loitering in the parking lot. It could be nothing, or it could be trouble … either way they didn't have the look of paying customers. Tony decided to circle around Goodnight Avenue to see if the youths were still hanging around the store in five or ten minutes. If so, he made need to purchase a carton of milk, ask a few questions, and give them a scare.

"Unit R-12, this is dispatch. What's your twenty? Over." Natalie Frazier's calm, professional voice crackled over the police radio.

Tony picked up his police radio and clicked on the talk button, "Dispatch, this unit R-12. Westbound on Thatcher at Goodnight Street. Over."

"10-4, Unit R12. We have a report of a dead body found at the Lake Pueblo Dam. Proceed to the south side entrance and secure the scene. Over."

This didn't sound quite right to Tony. "Is this the best time to mention 'State Park'?" Then he added helpfully, "I'll be happy to contact the State Police for you, if you would like … over." Patrolling alone all of the time made him a little flippant.

"Umm," Natalie continued, losing a little of that professionalism, "the State Patrol is tied up with a traffic accident on Interstate 25. The chief has committed resources to secure the area. Over."

Just when Tony considered having a little humor at Natalie's expense an irritated, gruff voice came over the radio, "Just get down there, Sacco. You're the closest unit we have to the reservoir. A park ranger will be waiting for you at the operations building off Juniper Road."

"Roger; I got it," Tony answered. "I'm only a few minutes away. When you get a chance you might want to send a truancy officer over to the Loaf 'n Jug on Thatcher. Over and out."

Tony turned on his siren and sped over to Juniper Road while cars pulled to the side out of his way. It reduced the time it took to arrive by at least ten seconds – probably his last bit of fun for the day.

The dam was built at the western edge of Pueblo in the early sixties in response to a major spring flood. The lake itself was simply a wide part of the river. The effect of the dam was to widen it further. The river ran high and fast in the spring thaw and overflowed its banks. Only a year old at the time, Tony could not even remember it, but his neighbors spoke of that dreadful week with heroic hyperbole. The dam allowed the lake to drain into the Arkansas River in a controlled flood each spring protecting the city from further damage.

Once at the dam, Tony exited his car and shook hands with Park Ranger Wilbur Butz. Wilbur had been helping a local citizen's group learn about the local wild life nature. They were lucky enough to spot a mule deer, red fox, badger, and a coyote. The coyote was the real excitement, but right after that a fisherman spotted the body floating in the water.

"I didn't think there were any fish in the lake," Tony wondered aloud.

"There's not, but some people catch the darnedest things. In all my years, I've never seen anything like this."

"Great. Save it for the detective. The more detail the better; … they love that sort of thing." Tony just imagined long, meaningless conversation the state investigator was going to have with Wilbur. "Just show me where the body is so I can construct the protective barrier."

The grayish, bloated body was laying faced down in the lake right next to the dam. The force of the water flow tried to push it through the opening; his right arm almost made it. Curiously, the arm ended in a ragged stump. It shouldn't be too difficult for the divers to pull it out of the lake for the medical examiner. Tony retrieved a few pylons and posts and the ever important yellow crime scene tape from the trunk of his patrol car and began to cordon off the scene.

Ranger Wilbur asked, "What should I do? Should I close the dam to stop the water flow?"

"No… leave it be. Let the divers decide. They know the best way to remove him from the water without slicing off his arm." He completed the barrier construction and asked, "Have you sent the tree huggers away?" Looking a little miffed, Wilbur nodded. "How about the other side? Do people have access over there?"

"Sure," Wilbur nodded once again.

"Well, I'll need some help. I can't guard both sides at the same time." Tony pulled out another roll of yellow tape and, along with a few posts, handed them to Wilbur.

Burdened down with supplies, surefooted Wilbur happily carried them across the tilted, concrete top of the dam. _I'll be damned_, Tony thought completely missing his own pun, _I thought for sure he would drive around._

Left to his own devices, Tony quickly grew bored with the isolated protection detail. Without the security of his police cruiser, he felt exposed. It was a far cry from the crowds at the elementary school. He tried to listen to the crackling banter over the police radio, but there wasn't much happening in town. The accident on I-25 was being cleared away and there was a break-in at a home on 17th Street.

This was the first Tony spent any time at Lake Pueblo since High School. The panoramic view of hilly, desert rock interspersed with groves of brush and trees was beautiful. In High School he never appreciated the scenery - as he was usually accompanied by Aileen. A lizard sunned himself on a nearby outcropping in the noontime sun. Some sort of hawk circled the sky while hunting for prey. _Not much else going on out here_.

Sightseeing was fun and allowed Tony to waste another ten minutes. _Come on detective!_ He glanced across the dam to find Ranger Wilbur steadfast at his guard post. Then he took a few minutes to study the corpse in the lake. Bloated, swollen, barely recognizable as something human. _I wonder what the detective will make of that._ It was really none of his business. The detective will investigate, but Tony couldn't help but wonder about how interesting it would be to do something other than guard yellow tape. He returned to focus on the outlying nature and waited for the state cop.

**Owen**

Other than Soccer Saturday, Owen had spent most of the last week searching through the document collection at the Pueblo State library. Tens of thousands of books, and he couldn't find one reference on the concentrated blood of a saint. Out of sixteen lines in the poem this one stood out as the most important, but the phrase made absolutely no sense to him.

The hour long trek to the library was torture every day. It required him to abandon Abby, leave her unattended and unprotected ... vulnerable to prying eyes for the all of those wasted hours. Once there, he spent much of the time hiding in the stacks, avoiding the possibility of running into someone who might recognize him.

Owen thought the message must be very old, so he focused on ancient meanings for blood. A reference in the Bible contained this description: "For the life of a creature is in the blood, and I have given it to you to make atonement for yourselves on the altar; it is the blood that makes atonement for one's life." The same passage mentioned that anyone who consumes blood will be cut off from the people. That sounded disturbing. It was almost too close to his and Abby's existence, so Owen decided to set this passage aside.

Hippocrates, in ancient Greece, considered blood to be one of the four humors associated with air or springtime; the other three humors being phlegm, yellow bile and black bile. The humors needed to be in balance for a healthy life. _I don't get it._ _Blood isn't funny at all._ Concentrated blood must be concentrated humor which sounded like a bad joke.

Early Chinese beliefs taught that the body was composed of vital energy or Qi. Blood and Qi were inseparable. Qi is carried to the rest of the body through blood, yet Qi is the force that propels the flow of blood. "Concentrated blood" could be some form of concentrated vital energy. _But how do you concentrate energy? Maybe nuclear power?_ Owen could not figure out how it applied to Selkie's message. Abby once had a puzzle she said was worth more than a nuclear power plant. He didn't really believe her – he didn't think you could even buy a nuclear power plant. No matter – that puzzle was gone along with the huge wooden chest and most of Abby's other possessions.

Norse legends taught that the rivers, lakes and oceans were the blood from one of the giant like gods of their pantheon: Ymir. In this case, The Arkansas River could be the blood of Ymir. But the river was dead. Maybe he would have to find a living river somewhere – the river of life.

He found another reference to blood in Ancient Egypt; one he was familiar with. Early in Leviticus, Moses turned the Nile River to blood in the first of his ten plagues. _This could be another reference to the river of life_. The Nile River was awfully far away. The Pharaoh's sorcerers then turned water to blood to demonstrate the power of their own gods. Owen searched and searched for their method, but he could only find a reference to their "secret arts". This was something he might be able to learn more about at the Blazing Crescent. Jane has to know how the ancient Egyptians turned water to blood.

_Maybe I am not reading the message correctly_. While researching, he realized that "concentrated" has more than one meaning. Perhaps the message referred to mental concentration. He had been doing a lot of that over the past week. _In that case, how do you mentally concentrate on blood?_

This idea brought him full circle to the first reference he found in the Bible – the concept of atonement. It sounded a lot like prayer or confession. Stories abounded about mystical saints who concentrated so hard on their prayers that they escaped the bounds of earth. Saint Simeon was one of those. He lived on top of a tall pillar for decades. _The concentrated blood of a saint – could it be this easy and this impossible?_

Over the past week he had spent so much time conducting research that he barely paid attention to Abby. He could hardly remain awake; several nights she spent stargazing alone. The strain was worth the effort. After nearly a week's research, Owen thought he had developed ideas to approach Jane. With luck she found ideas within her references, and they could compare notes. On this warm, sunny December day, Owen decided to skip the library and head to the Blazing Crescent. In the early afternoon he was surprised to find it closed.

**Javier Sacco**

Lunch at school had settled down with seven additional staff members patrolling between the noisy tables. But Javier barely noticed the increased vigilance. He was distracted by distant, nearly forgotten memories**. **

It had been a long time since Javier thought about Mirella Ordóñez from next door … not since before the automobile accident that destroyed his choices in life. Barbie-doll pretty, she said she liked him. Second grade, behind bushes in her front yard, Mirella giggled at Javier's affection. He held his breath and their noses touched. Eskimo kisses – an enchanting experience for a seven year-old.

A plastic spork jabbed his hand pulling him out of his mind-wobbling. "Hey!" Javier said, irritated. "What was that for?" He noticed Mrs. Peabody glancing his way with a worried expression. Three tiny marks were impressed into his skin. "Were you eating with that?" he asked. The skin wasn't broken, but what was Lazarus thinking?

"I was just trying to get your attention."

With an irritated huff, Javier rubbed his hand. It quickly returned to normal just as Javier's thoughts wanted to drift back to the steel mill. "What do you think about girls?" he asked nobody in particular.  
"I try to think of them as little as possible," Lazarus said.

A week ago, Javier would have agreed. This week he was bamboozled by whimsy – the mesmerizing mystery of the steel mill. He imagined going back to see her. He was thrilled at the prospect, but worried about that big guy. _Big guy ... I bet Tony could take him. _His thoughts strayed to Eskimo kisses with Abby. _She had a pretty nose_.

Six-year old Caleb added, "Becky Bailey's in my class … I like to think about her." His cheeks turned pink as he bashfully glanced down at his lap.

"Don't think too hard about Becky," Lazarus said, "her mother is one of those marching in front of the school."

"We held hands in the cafeteria line," Caleb added with a grin.

Lazarus rolled his eyes at the vision, "You better be careful. That's how you get cooties," Lazarus chuckled knowing he had scored on his brother. Caleb was unashamed.

Caleb's harmless crush was cute, but that was kids' stuff. Javier was almost into Junior High. He tried to dream up ways to sneak past the bearded guy. He wasn't always at the steel mill; maybe Javier could wait outside for him to leave. But the man really wasn't so bad; when Javier was gasping for air, he seemed worried about him … concerned. He was probably just trying to scare Javier ... probably. Javier did not want to think about that guy. He just wanted to think about Abby. _Maybe she needs to be rescued from him – he seems awfully old._

A spork poked him in the hand once again. "Hey! Cut it out." Mrs. Peabody gave them another glare.

"Are you finished?" Lazarus asked. "We're ready to hit the playground."

Javier wolfed down the rest of his cardboard pizza and chugged his chocolate milk. They raced out of the cafeteria depositing their trays in the wash area. Javier's plotted ways to penetrate the defense of the steel mill with Eskimo kisses as his reward. _Or maybe even a real kiss. _He blushed at the thought_._

**Tony Sacco**

In his boredom, Tony was fascinated with the quiet. A cordoned off scene in the city would produce dozen's of gawkers, but here – nobody. He thought he might have seen a momentary glint off binoculars from the ridge of a hill, but that was it. This was getting ridiculous – he hated the quiet.

Finally someone arrived. The blazing sunlight reflected off of the windshield blinding Tony for a moment. A dark colored Lincoln stirred up the gravel on Juniper Road. Two white panel vans followed the Town Car, completing the convoy.

A dark-suited man with Aviator sunglasses to complete the official state tough guy ensemble stepped out of the lead car. He approached Tony over at his position, and flashed his badge, "Agent Dean Guerard, CBI. I received a call about a body."

Tony introduced himself to the new arrival, and Guerard asked him, "Are you the one who reported it?"

Tony shook his head and pointed across the dam. "Ranger Wilbur did. Maybe he can provide some useful information." Tony raised his hand to compel Wilbur to move from his protection detail. Staring away from them in his steadfast watch, the ranger didn't see him. They honked a car horn to get his attention. This time Wilbur turned around and noticed them. Tony waved for him to return to the south side of the river. With the surefootedness of a ram, Wilbur scooted across and proceeded to give Detective Guerard the details of the mule deer sighting earlier in the day.

Four more people exited the vans. Three of them from the first van could have been cut from the same cloth – crew cuts, flannel shirts, denim and cowboy boots and the same Rayban sunglasses. "It's a beautiful day!" The first one said. He introduced himself to Tony as Steve Hayden, the leader of the diver crew. He pointed to the spillway. "Is that where the body is?"

From immersion in the water, the skin on the body was loose. The divers studied it from several angles to try to figure out the best way to remove it without damaging on the skin. "Look Ma, no hands," one of them said in jest waving both hands in the air. In the end, they grabbed a tarp from the van and wrapped it around the body for extraction. More than an hour later, they had the body exhumed from the lake and deposited on the gurney. The medical examiner, Martin Lowery, conducted silent observations of the remains.

"That is some diligent park ranger you guys have here. I think I know everything that happened in the lake over the past year," Agent Guerard said to Tony as he pulled him aside. "Is this where the Indian massacre took place all those years ago?"

"Very close," Tony answered, "somewhere at the foot of the Greenhorns. Everybody in town knows the story. It's part of our heritage."

"Tell me about it," Guerard said.

"It wasn't so much of a massacre as a mass suicide. Somebody discovered silver in the mountains and the tribe's days were numbered. Union troops headed to the area with orders to forcibly relocate them. The Apache were prepared to fight, but they would have lost. Their shaman relayed a prophecy that the only way to defeat the blue shirts was with the death of the entire tribe. One small child survived, sent off by his mother. They say that is why the tribe failed, but the boy claimed that he saved them all."

"That's kind of a strange tale," Guerard said with skepticism. "What ever happened to the boy?"

"It's not as strange as you might think. Just about every western tribe can tell a similar story," Tony answered. "That brave little boy is a local hero. He still lives here in Pueblo, but he's no longer a kid. I met him during his hundredth birthday celebration this summer. They call him Maikoda which means "Power of the Moon" or something like that. He's a very tired, old man who would like to die, but he says we still need him. He doesn't give the area much chance after he's gone."

"That's a boatload of superstition to carry around for a hundred years," Guerard said. "So is that shaman still wandering around here somewhere?"

Tony chuckled. "That's what they say. Every so often a hiker disappears in the mountains and it gets blamed on the crazy shaman. I don't think it isn't anything that _Scooby Doo and the Mystery Crew_ couldn't handle."

Guerard indicated to the body that was removed from the lake. "So what do you think about him?"

Tony removed his cover and scratched his head. "Well," he answered, "I don't think he'll recover."

Guerard laughed at the understatement, "I guess not. What about the hands; where do you think they are?"

"If I had to guess, I would say they are far down the river somewhere. They were probably light enough to be carried over the dam."

"Don't you think it is curious that someone removed them?"

Tony looked at him strangely trying to figure out where these questions were headed, "I think that is something we should ask the detectives."

"The detective is asking you," Guerard said. "Do you think they were removed to hide the identity of the victim?"

"How?" Tony laughed at that prospect. "The stumps are ragged – they weren't sliced off. Do you mind if I check the body?"

Guerard shook his head, so Tony walked over to the stretcher to find the medical examiner removing rope fibers from his wrist stumps. Tony asked if he could inspect the body. After donning latex gloves, Tony checked out the area around the wrists. The skin was stretched tight around faded purplish bruising. "The skin on his forearms is stretched out … I guess his hands and feet were tied to a something."

Guerard stood on Tony's shoulder and asked, "Do you think he was murdered?"

Tony shrugged, a little uncomfortable with the questioning. He would prefer to be guarding the yellow tape. "Could be. I think the hands and feet just sheared off over time. He couldn't float to the surface until all four were severed."

The medical examiner then bagged and labeled the green fishing line stuck into his shoulder when Guerard asked him about the time of death.

Dr. Lowery shrugged, "It's difficult to be precise … quite awhile … several years at least. With this much bloating and decay, our decomposition tables aren't very accurate. Add the fact that the lake water is more acidic than normal and very cold. I can't really say for certain when he died."

Tony lifted up the sheet above his face. "I think I might be able to help you out on that score. I'd say he's been dead about five years."

"Well that's certainly in the ball park. How could you know?"

"If someone meant to hide his identity, I think they failed. He looks different, all bloated and such, but I recognize him. He used to be a friend of the mayor's … the new mayor. I went to high school with his daughter." _She was in a group of friends with Aileen … a couple of rebels … what was her name? Mab, or something like that. But I think she changed it._ "Back in the day, his disappearance was infamous in these parts ... at least among the police force. We found his abandoned truck along Route 78 – nowhere near here. No finger prints on the steering wheel or door, no evidence ... nothing. Never did find the body. Until now, anyway." _Aileen lost touch after school. Mab doted on that little sister of hers. "_His name is Ray Mosi. I remember him as a little bit of a strange bird … kind of a hippie."

"How long have you been a cop?" Guerard asked him.

"Going on eight years now."

Guerard studied him up and down trying to take his measure. After a few moments of silence he asked, "Why haven't you tried to become a detective, yet?"

"Are you kidding me? I don't need that heartache."

"Let's get him back to the morgue," Lowery said. "You're chief has been kind enough to lend us your facilities."

"Yeah, he's good like that," Tony said. He wanted to add, _as long as there was a possible promotion in it_, but he resisted.

"I'm looking forward to seeing Jonesy," the medical examiner added. I haven't spoken to him since he transferred from Denver."

Jonesy was their lab technician, or as he liked to call himself "a forensic scientist". As far as Tony could tell, he was sloppy for a scientist. Forensic science was something new for Pueblo, and the best were gobbled up by the big city departments. He had all sorts of fancy equipment and came recommended from Denver. Tony didn't see any sense in it. Jonesy was a good kid, but Tony never knew a scientist who stored his lunch in the lab refrigerator right next to samples.

They loaded the remains into the back of the van and headed off to the morgue. Tony would have to let them in.

**Owen**

"Jane, get up," Owen said shaking Jane on her shoulder. "Why are you still asleep?" The gloomy room assaulted Owen's senses with the stale smell of dregs and decay.

Jane jolted awake all the way to a full seated position with Owen kneeling next to her. "Where am I?" she asked, flustered, "I can't breathe." Owen looked at her strangely while she caught her breath. Running her hand through her disheveled hair, she became aware of her surroundings. She was in her family room lying on the sofa enshrouded in a warm blanket. "What are you doing in my house?"

"You said you would help me." Owen switched off Phil Donohue's rambling exhortations. "I'm here to collect." He grabbed the mug and took its place by sitting on the cocktail table. He inhaled a whiff. _Gross._ "Why aren't you in the store?"

She rested her forehead in her hands. "I have a headache." She snagged the mug from Owen's hands and sipped the coffee. She shuddered at the fetid, cold taste. Placing it in the kitchen microwave, she depressed the reheat button. "What was it that I was supposed to be doing for you?" she asked.

Owen followed her into the kitchen. He investigated the remnants of the pantry. "Do you have any macaroni and cheese?" He moved around a few items, probing for anything interesting. "Mother Hubbard, your cupboard is bare." He shook the Ritz cracker box – only crumbs. "I guess you haven't been shopping in awhile." He tipped the remnants into his mouth.

Jane studied him like she was trying to figure out what type of exterminator to call. Turning around from the pantry Owen noticed the scraps of paper filled with scribbled notes on the table – exactly where she left them a week ago. "You are supposed to be researching the meaning behind Selkie's poem … checking in your reference books … things like that." Disappointed, he picked up the sheets and studied the writing. "You haven't done any research; have you?"

"I want you to stay away from Selkie," she said as removed the heated mug from the microwave. She took a sip and sat down at the kitchen table. She added with a somewhat snotty flair, "I make it a point not to get wrapped up in her fantasies. She can't help you. She is a lonely, innocent soul reaching out to find meaning. She provided an answer for a question that doesn't exist ... just to keep you close. I have to protect her."

Owen stood there looking like a fool with his mouth hanging open. His mother always called it "catching flies." He was dumbfounded. "Jane, this is important to me."

She added some white powder to her coffee … _nondairy creamer, maybe_ … and stirred. "What have you done to her?"

"What?" Once again Owen was stunned by Jane. "I thought she went camping."

"Not Selkie," Jane answered. "The girl without any shoes." Jane's lip quivered with anger and frustration. Her voice was getting louder. "Are you taking advantage of her? Abusing her? I know that look in her eyes."

Jane was jumping all over the place from idea to idea. "Abby? Are you kidding? I'm trying to help her."

"What do you get out of helping … Abby?" She sat back with a smug look on her face. "I'm sure you aren't being completely altruistic."

"I don't know what I get out of it … maybe nothing." It was Owen's to get irritated. "I'm trying to find meaning in the world … just like Selkie. Right now, my place is helping Abby." He took a page from Selkie's playbook grabbing Jane by the arm, "and your place is helping me." Disturbed, coffee splattered onto the table. "Enough of this shit. No more moping around, feeling sorry for yourself. We're going down to the store and look through the books. I need to start with books on Egypt."

"What are we trying to do?" Jane asked as she was hurried by Owen down the stairs. He was kind of surprised that she followed along without too much resistance.

"We're trying to find a way to cure blood cravings. We've talked about this. This is how I'm trying to help Abby," Owen said impatiently. "Selkie received this poem from someone in the Faerie Land and we need to try to understand it. I barely know where to begin. I need your help."

"Oh, it's that vampire thing again." On the way down the stairs, she gulped down the remainder of her coffee. "I explained to you before that you can't cure a vampire. They're already dead. This is just one of Selkie's delusions to keep you around." Then she added much more firmly, "Stay away from my sister. She's disturbed enough without your little crusade."

Owen ignored the contempt. "Abby says she isn't dead. That's good enough for me."

His confident speech hid the doubt that began to grow in Owen. _She didn't really answer my question. I asked her if she were dead … she answered something like "Do you think I am?" She is pretty cold all of the time. Would I want to cure her, if it caused her complete death? _

He couldn't concern himself about that possibility. Jane didn't seem to be any expert on the subject. _She can't be correct – if you're dead, then you're not walking around._ They were going to search through those references … today. Once downstairs in the store, Owen turned on the lights and unlocked the door. "Now where do you keep the books on Egypt?"

"Try over here. We have all sorts of books on the Middle East." Jane indicated a bookshelf in the opposite corner of the store.

"I just need Egypt. I don't suppose you have the _Egyptian Book of Secrets_ or something like that."

"There is no _Egyptian Book of Secrets_ … What could you possibly want with that?" Jane started going through the motions of opening the store. The rote activity began to restore her to life. She counted the money in the register and started dusting off some of the dust from the shelves around the register.

"The Egyptians were able to turn water into blood to prove that Moses's first curse was nothing unique to his God. I thought we could find the potions and spells that they used." Owen sneezed from the billowing dust as he shuffled books around looking for something useful. "What about the _Egyptian Book of the Dead_?"

"You just need a basic chemistry set. They didn't really make blood; they just mixed chemicals that turned red." She turned the sign around to indicate "Open". "Those books are myths. The _Egyptian Book of the Dead_ just explains how to prepare a body for mummification. There is no special, esoteric knowledge in the book."

"You're just full of all sorts of helpful ideas. Aren't you supposed to be an expert on these sorts of things? You are supposed to know more about magic than about chemistry."

"I don't suppose you can pay for any of this, can you? I am a business, you know."

Owen shook his head thinking that he needed the little bit of cash in his pocket. "Not really."

Against her better judgment, Jane leafed through some of the books in the Egypt section. "I can't find anything here. You keep looking. I'll study Selkie's little rhyme to see if I can figure out anything." The door opened and a customer entered. Jane greeted the new customer, "Hi, Mrs. Caldwell. What are you looking for today?"

He kept the sheets of paper out to study the rest of the poem. He couldn't find anything in Jane's books about Egyptian blood. After old-lady Caldwell left with some fresh mistletoe (_I always thought mistletoe was plastic_), he asked Jane if any of the other lines of the poem made any sense.

"Let's see … the name 'Eleazar' sounds familiar. Let me check a few books about that," she offered.

She pulled out a few books from the shelf, leafing through them. "Here it is. Eleazar is the Kohen Gadol … the high priest of the Israelites." She read through a few more pages of the text. "The sacrifice of the Red Heifer is a purification ritual which occurred in the Tabernacle of the Wilderness. Selkie would appreciate that. I guess she would call Lake Pueblo her Tabernacle of the Wilderness."

"What does that have to do with a cure?"

"I have no idea. Are you sure Selkie is even interested in a cure? Maybe this has to do with something else altogether."

"Selkie seemed to think our meeting was fate. I found her just when I needed help." Owen was clinging to that idea. "This has to be important; it has to be a cure."

"I don't know," Jane said with a sigh. "Selkie is always rambling on and on about fate. She claims that we are defined by the sum of our choices. If you ask me, we have fewer choices than she thinks. You can buy food or you can buy clothes – not much of a choice, really. Fate isn't liberating, it's a trap."

"You're so cheery," Owen said sarcastically. "What keeps you going?"

"I don't know. I guess … resilience, a determination to make a difference in someone's life. Hope that there will be something better tomorrow," Jane said. "When you run out of hope, there is always one choice you could make."

"Hope is a good beginning, but not a very good ending," Owen said. He pulled out the pages of Selkie's translation. "Let's get back to something a little less profound. What else could the poem mean?"

"You are looking too deeply into it. It's just something Selkie came up with to pique your interest. Maybe the entire prayer is a complex purification ritual. It may not do anything."

Owen wasn't sure about Jane's idea, but at least she was being helpful. He wanted to keep her thinking about it. "What about the 'vessel of grace' … what do you think that means?"

"If I had to guess, I would say that Selkie herself is my idea of a vessel of grace." She scratched her chin in a thoughtful way. "I have to admit, this is a lot more interesting than The Price is Right. I'm glad I talked you into looking into this chant." Owen gave her a bewildered expression that she missed completely. "It's kind of like a puzzle. The 'vessel of grace' could be anybody."

Owen was sure the vessel was Abby. _How could she purify herself?_ "Why don't you focus on the concentrated blood of a saint?"

Jane looked a little frustrated on that phrase. She pulled out a few of her books and found nothing useful. She studied them for awhile. Finally with a frustrated sigh she said, "I think I need to make a phone call."

She walked over to her store phone attached to the wall next to the register and dialed a number. She spoke quietly into the receiver so that Owen couldn't overhear. He started leafing through some more books to try to find information about other phrases in the poem. 'Essence of hope' – what could that mean? It sounded like his entire life. And 'Hyssop aspergill'? Selkie gave him a stalk of hyssop, but what was an aspergill? Maybe it was a biology term, like a _genus_ and _species_. The library was probably a better place to find that information.

Jane hung up the phone and walked back over to the research area. "No problem. I should have some concentrated blood of a saint within a few days. Why don't you come back on Monday?"

"That seems way too easy," Owen said. "I've been spending the past week trying to find information on that."

"Sometimes it's not what you know, it's who you know." Owen looked at her confused. She decided to reveal the source of her secret knowledge. "There is a statue of the Virgin Mary who cries bloody tears. I thought that might be the answer. I have a contact in California who thinks they can get me a sample."

That made about as much sense as anything else. _It could be worth a try_. Owen started to ask her about "Lilith", when he noticed a solid black uniform arriving at the door. It was a police officer with a second older man in a suit, looking all official and everything. _Wonder what he wants_. Owen wasn't going to stick around to find out. "Great, thanks for your help. I'll just let myself out the back door. Please keep trying to figure out the poem."

"Thank you, Owen," Jane said as he started out of the back door.

He paused for a moment, "For what?"

"For pulling me out of my funk. I was in a pretty bad way."

"Oh, sure. Don't mention it." He headed quickly to the back. On his way out, he heard the tinkling of the bell from the storefront. He exited just in time.

An hour or two of daylight remained, but he couldn't think of anything else to do with his time. The library at Pueblo State was too far away. He decided to slowly head back to the mill, delighted with what they had accomplished.

It was these moments, when he was walking alone, that he noticed it the most. The tug from the direction of the mill grew stronger. The seductive allure beckoned for him to follow. He used to think it was just the force of Abby's nature, but now he was not so sure. The rest of Charlie's white mixture rested in the bag with his belongings. The thought of that powder was just as strong as Abby. A little bit of that powder would calm his frayed, frustrated nerves.

He completed his casual stroll down the street, through the busted fence around the parking lot, and to the side entrance of the steel mill. Owen frowned when he found the door swinging haphazardly in the mild breeze. He replaced the sledgehammer under the pushbar, locking the door shut.

He entered the mill and headed up the stairs to the main floor. After a trip to the bathroom he added water to a soup can and found a packet of noodles for his afternoon meal. The flame was burning low. He grabbed a pallet and broke off the last few timbers and added two of them to the barrel. The fire flared from the added fuel. The powder was right there next to his mattress – but not now, he could resist.

Living at the mill for over a month, Owen felt he knew all of the few random noises. Brisk winds whistled through the eaves, rats skittered along the floor, and bats fluttered in the ceiling. Today he thought he heard something else... movement, a giant crucible. The wheels weren't all locked. It sounded like someone was leaning on it, pushing it. "Who's there?" Owen asked. "Come out now!"


	20. Chapter 20

Note: Chapters 18 & 19 were once Chapter 12

Chapter 20

The Path Chosen for Us

December 14, 1988

**Selkie**

Selkie's quest had come full circle. Her earliest memories were the joys she found at Lake Pueblo – swimming in the summer, camping in the fall, and ice skating in the winter. The remote camping areas brought back thoughts of her three dogs - Urth, Verthandi and Skuld - playing in the shadow of the Greenhorns and of her father surrounded by the dwindling adulation of his few remaining friends. These shadowy reflections were sharper than any childhood friends or even her mother.

Jane was happy then. Now she thought this place was evil. Selkie never understood what had changed her perception.

In the waning days after the Vietnam War, squatters were no longer welcome in the park. Her father's cult was forced to disband and pursue a more legitimate lifestyle. They traded in their camper, and Selkie became increasingly isolated. Homeschooled by the sister she idolized, she barely understood what she missed. She absorbed the esoteric world of the Blazing Crescent, but it wasn't enough. Numb from detachment – meaning and joy were found through trial and error. Her first attempt - a pair of scissors created six holes in her left ear before Jane stopped her. Earrings and tattoos could not hide the painful euphoria of life. But each experience of joy was less than the time before.

Then she discovered the gateway to the land of the Fey. With the enthralling experience of the new land, she was rejuvenated. The vigor of this world diminished the city life of Pueblo. _Owen should come here and experience life again. He would understand._

Selkie knew the park better than her own scattered mess of a bedroom. Lake Pueblo was much smaller than the nearby national forests, but she counted on it to reveal new wonders each visit. None was as magical as the transcendent gateway. In the past few years, she discovered this spiritual ecstasy – a magical escape from the mundane. This must be why her father loved it here so much.

Selkie located her camp in a small grove on the Southwest corner of the lake. This choice was special for her – as any opportunity for choice is special. An occasional car drove past on nearby Route 96, but trees in the way blocked the view. This was the most remote location she knew within the boundaries – far from the civilized confines of the campgrounds, park offices, and wayward hikers. After riding her bike along the path, she constructed her tent on the side of a shallow hill, ate her meal, and began the sacred ritual in search of the land of the Faerie.

Unlike Jane's preconceptions, her travels were fueled by more than simple opiates. It was total sensory experience. Each location in the park quivered to a different pitch. She had to search for just the right harmony. Smell and color were both vital to her travels. To the delicate, white powder she added the midnight blue of an alpine winter and the pearlescent green of a moonlit waterfall. She hummed the deep, resonating pure sound of "Ut" liberating her from guilt and fear. Before long she found herself between mountainous desert terrain and the edge of the desolate, charcoal forest – the southwestern edge; the wrong edge.

A biting gust of wind blew sand and acrid smoke in her direction, stinging her face. Consumed by fire, the lifeless forest to the north and east had been burned to a faded husk of its prior vitality. Selkie was mesmerized by the timeless beauty of the charred tree trunks. She took a sip from her canteen to wash away the bitter taste of smoke and the desert heat.

This time, casual hiking gear was going to cut it. Instead Selkie was fully outfitted in camouflage fatigues, complete with black T-shirt and beret. The protective symbol of three crescent moons intersecting in a clover shape formed the insignia. She checked the blade of her M-9 Army knife and returned it securely at her belt. She had a second, smaller one stowed in her boot. Today she was arrayed for battle. Someday Oberon would answer for his unjust punishment of Finvarra, but that was not her goal on this trip.

Shaking away her anxious reluctance, she asked the black dove the question for which she already knew the answer, "Should we enter the woodlands, Toto?"

The bird squawked "yes" and, together, they plunged into the persistent, withering darkness of the forest toward Gog of Magog. Finvarra needed her, and she was not going to fail. Toto on her shoulder brought her a measure of confidence.

**Tony Sacco**

The divers headed back to Denver as the others drove to the parking lot behind the Pueblo City Buildings. Tony spoke through the intercom to request entry permission from the guard. He waved at the camera to ensure that he was recognized. After being buzzed in, Tony led the body into the belly of the beast, through the basement, to the morgue.

He escorted the Denver contingent to the morgue along with the corpse. Once inside he introduced Guerard to Jonesy and Kylie Farr – Pueblo's own, local medical examiner. Guerard was pleased to meet Dr. Farr, but he was already well-acquainted with Jonesy from his days in Denver.

Dennis Jones, a pretentious, glam-rock wannabe (he still had the big, fluffy hair), earned his master's degree in a new field that Tony wasn't even aware existed – Forensic Science – from Colorado State. Fresh out of college an ambitious, young Jonesy discovered that a master's degree gave him knowledge, but it didn't earn him respect. His careless work habits failed to impress the PhD's at Denver's state of the art facility. Rather than face recriminations, the state recommended him for the isolated station in Pueblo where he could do little damage in the small laboratory. And Pueblo was happy to have him. He was even starting to make a difference in Pueblo's investigative procedures.

The medical examiner was an altogether different story. They had long understood the benefits of a department medical examiner. Kylie Farr had been with the force for over twenty years. Her family was a mainstay in the community. She and Lowery prepared their tools for weighing and dissecting the corpse. Jonesy collected fiber, fishing line, and water samples from the body for testing. Tony excused himself before any of the gruesome cutting began. Guerard came along. "Do you mind if I follow you up? I need to speak with your chief."

"Go right ahead," Tony said. "I'm not going quite that far; a trip to the little boy's room and the snack area. But I can point you in the right direction."

The headed down the hall together toward the stairway. The way to the upstairs ran past the short term holding facilities where one long term resident had been staying. "How's it hanging?" he called out to Tony.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Tony said with a chuckle.

"Introduce me to your friend," Victor said. "I get so few visitors down here."

"This here is Inspector Guerard." Tony put his hand onto Guerard's shoulder. "He's from the state … so treat him well. He heard about some kinky things going on in Pueblo. He came to straighten them out."

"I'll show him a few kinky things. Just let him spend the night down here."

"What's his story?" Guerard asked indicating to the prisoner in the jail cell.

"Victor was arrested for assault on Halloween night … for spitting."

Guerard looked a little aghast, "You have someone in jail for a month and a half … for spitting … and you haven't charged him? That's criminal."

"Victor's a special case," Tony answered a little defensively. "He has AIDS. He caused quite uproar over that spitting."

"You can't catch AIDS from saliva," Victor said cackling at the police officer.

"That's not really fair," Tony protested. "We didn't really know that at the time. Plus, there was a little blood involved ..." Tony said.

"That wasn't my fault," Victor said.

"You want out, Victor. I'll let you out right now," Tony offered.

Victor waved his hand disdainfully, "Nah. Where am I gonna go? I'm out of work and I've been kicked out of my apartment. I'd just as soon die here."

Tony turned to Guerard, "And so he sits. We don't dare charge him; we don't dare let him out on the streets. And I need a break." Tony strode to the guard to buzz him out of the secure area. "See you later, Victor."

After introducing Guerard to the chief, Tony took care of business in the restroom, and then meandered to the snack lounge for a candy bar. Within turning the corner into the snack area, Tony stepped into brouhaha in full force. Dick from purchasing was spewing his venomous views to Linda Pipkin about something. When he walked in he had just heard, "His girlfriend left him now. And it's all because of that queer!"

Just as she noticed Tony enter the room, Linda tugged on Dick's dress shirtsleeve and placed her forefinger in front of her lips. The universal signal for "Be quiet; he's just entered the room."

"What are you guys talking about?" Tony asked while selecting a Snickers Bar from the vending machine. He looked up and noticed a very quiet Jesse Corrle sitting at the table with the other two. "Jesse, I haven't talked to you since the shooting. What've you been up to?"

Jesse just continued sitting there with his arms crossed, but Linda answered, "Nothing." Hoping that it would be left at that.

Dick, however, wouldn't let it rest. He stood up and walked over to Tony. If Tony's physical sized intimidated him, he wasn't showing it. "I'll tell you what we've been talking about." He poked Tony in the chest with his forefinger. "You contaminated Jesse. Now his girlfriend left. I can't believe you did that."

"How do you think his girlfriend would have reacted if he were dead?" Tony asked still holding a tight rein on his temper.

"Well we can't find out, because you didn't give him a choice."

_That doesn't make any sense._ Dick continued to poke him the chest. Tony was tempted to spit on him, now that he knew that you can't transmit AIDS that way … even so, he thought it was disgusting. _Maybe I should bite that finger._ Instead he grabbed Dick's outstretched hand with one arm, and hoisted him by his belt onto the top of an empty table. It was one of those cheap pressboard tables, and it collapsed under the weight. Dick continued to lie on the floor writhing in the back pain. _Well, that didn't solve anything, but it sure felt good_.

A loud, finger-enhanced whistle rang through the cafeteria. "Everybody, settle down," the chief cried out.

"Did you see him attack me?" Dick asked from the floor, now moving to a seated position and trying to catch his breath. "I want him disciplined."

Guerard was standing in the break room entrance next to the chief, laughing at the scene. "That was beautiful," Guerard said. "I think I'd like to see that again."

"Yeah, I saw it," the chief said. "I even saw how you provoked him. Get this place cleaned up and I'll expect your report by the end of the day. Right now I need to talk to Tony." The chief waved Tony to his direction.

Inspector Guerard walked over to the wincing pencil pusher, still laughing. "Next time maybe you should keep that finger to yourself." Then he called over to Tony, "Let's go Sacco. We have some errands to do."

Linda got up and started helping Dick off the broken table pieces.

"What's up?" Tony asked.

The chief added, "The detective here could use your help in finding some of the people in town who might know something about Ray Mosi. He'd like to talk with the children and Barleysmith and anybody else in town who may remember him. Maybe you could help show him around."

"No problem. Barleysmith should be right next door in the city buildings. As far as Mosi's children, I know where they used to live. We can find their current address in the directory." He glanced over at Jesse now sitting alone at his table, nursing a soda. "I'll be with you in a minute." Tony hadn't spoken to him since he returned to work. He meandered over to Jesse's table and casually asked, "How have you been doing?"

Jesse shrugged and averted his eyes. "I'm all right. I'm feeling a lot better than I did in that street."

"I'm sorry about the blood … I thought you were dying. I was only trying to help."

"Don't worry about it," Jesse said. Then, his eyes pooled with water, and he added, "Sometimes … I don't know how I feel about this curse. I might be better off if I had died. People would at least remember me well. I guess I would have liked to make the choice."

"Next time, I'll ask them to wake you up."

Jesse chuckled at the irony. "You can't throw a rock in the same river twice," he said. He took another sip from his soda, and quietly returned to his somber reflection.

_He'll snap out of it. He just has to find some new things to focus on._

Guerard wanted to talk to Jane and Selkie before the others. Without even needing to complete any paperwork, Tony and Guerard were off to the Blazing Crescent for more investigative work. It was kind of fun.

**Selkie**

With no markings to indicate the correct path, the pair had to trust their judgment. Upon reaching a fork in the trail, Selkie drew out her heavy duty, waterproof hiking compass. "I think we should try the eastern trail," she'd say.

Toto squealed a strong denial and refused to budge.

"All right … north, then." Selkie made her selection and headed deeper into the carnage. "I am so excited we have these choices. I have a love of fate!"

Dozens of paths zigged and zagged across each other. Selkie never had any idea which one to take. Willfully, carelessly, she left her fate in Toto's hands. They hiked all afternoon under the bulwark of the descending sun and the dawning resolution of shimmering stars. In the depth of gloom an immaculate, white swan perched on top of one of the highest dead trees. The swan stared majestically over the forest presiding over her realm. She lifted off of her post and circled around clearing framed by nighttime stars twinkling in the sky.

So transfixed by this vision, had it not been for the warning shake of an angry rattle, Selkie would have stepped right on top of the snake in her path. "Oh excuse me," she said, horrified at the near faux pas.

The snake quieted its rattle and slithered over to Selkie. "It's no bother, really. I'm excited to see you. I have few visitors." His tongue wandered in and out of his mouth, tasting the air. He spoke with a lisp, but Selkie knew better than to comment on his speech problems.

"We are just passing through," Selkie said. "We have business on the other side." Toto sat on her shoulder irritated at the interruption. Selkie's attention was drawn to a furious, angry call from the swan above them. "Excuse me, Abby. That was rude. I'm talking," Selkie said with exaggerated irritation.

The snake slithered closer to Selkie. It tickled when he began to wrap around her leg. She was strangely disoriented by the familiarity. "I have an idea," he said, "why don't you come camping with me down by the lake instead?"

"You have no power over me. Begone you vexing viper." She flicked her wrist carelessly to direct the slithering black rattler to another path. "I need to find my way through this maze and complete my journey. Perhaps some other time."

The swan's cry caught her attention once again as she glided above the treetops. A full moon, red from the dust, rose above the treetops. As it soared, the crimson shadow of the bloodless swan washed over them. The snake lisped a bitter cry. "Ignore her. She's only trying to keep us apart."

Irritated by the swan's controlling attitude, Selkie was torn between her and the snake. "Do I know you?" she wondered of the snake.

"Of course you do, my little one. I am Fate." He slithered up to her and wrapped around her boot.

"Fate … I love you!" she said eagerly. She found herself intrigued by this creature. Slowly, inexorably she decided perhaps she would go camping. Selkie was having trouble remembering what was so important on the other side of the forest.

As quick as the wind shifted, the selection was taken away from her. The swan swooped in and seized the serpent in her beak. The tussle knocked Selkie over as the viper held on tightly to her army boot causing Toto to flutter into the sky. Air was forced from her lungs and the muscles in her chest twitched in painful spasms. "I can't breathe," she gasped.

The swan beat her wings in powerful strokes, dragging Selkie along the ground. Her lungs finally gained a foothold in the struggle for air. She wheezed after inhaling the stirred up dust. After a furious struggle, the snake let go of Selkie's leg. There swan carried him to her perch, where she devoured the broken carcass.

In the darkness she noticed tiny green sprouts growing from the ground. Within the despair of the dead forest, new life was beginning. Kneeling, Selkie wiped the dust from her battle fatigues. Then she cleared the dirt away from the roots of the vibrant hint of things to come. Pouring just a little water from her supplies, she cultivated the glorious life … metempsychosis. From these sprouts, the forest will be reborn.

With the serpent's death, the haze slowly cleared from Selkie's faulty logic. She remembered the urgency of her mission. "Come on, Toto. What are you waiting for?" She motioned for him to return to her shoulder. Unencumbered by doubt, they continued down the through the forest to Finvarra's prison.

At the other side, an expansive chasm greeted them with the dawn of a cloudy sky. Monochromatic shades of beige and brown stratified layers rose up the walls extending north and south. In the very center of the abyss was a crested butte, an island in the wasteland. The butte hung upside-down with its base extending all the way into the clouds. On that butte rose the massive cedar, extending into the far depths of the chasm, onto which was bound the debased, noxious form of her once pure husband. The chasm channeled Finvarra's agonizing wail such that it shredded her spirit … destroying her essence of hope.

"What do we do, now?" Selkie asked her companion.

"We go to sleep," Toto told her. She took one last swig of water from her canteen and rested her head in the sand. Toto curled up next to her and the two of them fell into a restless, dreamless sleep.

**Tony Sacco**

Resting comfortably in the cruiser passenger seat Guerard reviewed the file they had on Ray Mosi's disappearance. On the night of October 11, 1983 he received a telephone call and left after dinner for an evening appointment. His eldest daughter, Jane, had been the last to see him alive. His second daughter, Selkie, was already asleep before he left.

His old Chevy truck was found the next morning abandoned along Route 78 with fresh stains on the passenger seat containing Ray's DNA. This lead the detective to believe he was out carousing – perhaps a drug deal. He had that reputation. The interior had been wiped clean of prints, and the exterior only had prints from family members. That was it. He had vanished. There were no hints to the disappearance, no leads whatsoever, and, until now, no body. The only odd detail was a lack of any telephone calls to the residence the night he disappeared. "Who did he have an appointment with?" He ruminated this out loud, and Tony responded with a grunt.

At the front door of the Blazing Crescent, Tony noticed the calligraphic characters which read "The Gateway to a New Reality". Wonder how strange this visit was going to turn out. Tony opened the door and they entered the utterly common gateway. The inside reminded Tony of the same old reality - just a little darker.

Complete with dust, the interior was filled with trinkets with some semblance of magical properties. Sitar music played over the sound system, and the incense smelled like apple pie. A very distracted Jane, having ignored the tinkling bell for the door, was studying scattered books alone in the rear section of the store. Tony coughed to indicate his presence, "Excuse me … Jane Mosi … could you spare a moment?" Tony asked.

Wild eyed, she looked up from the papers on the bookshelf, "I'm sorry, can I help you?" she asked. Her brow furrowed with concern. "Is something wrong?"

Guerard allowed Tony the opportunity to continue speaking, "We found a body at Lake Pueblo …"

He was cut off by her sharp gasp. Her eyes opened wide, her hand to her lips, she turned pale. "Is it Selkie?" she asked at a whisper.

"No … no, it's not your sister. We found the remains of your father." She looked relieved at the pronouncement. "Is your sister missing?"

Relieved, Jane answered, "She is camping at the lake. I worry about her - always."

The bell to the front door tinkled again to indicate a new someone had entered the store. Tony turned and saw the mayor-elect on his way in.

With his hesitation in asking the questions, Guerard interjected, "You don't seem upset to learn that your father has been found dead."

From behind them, a deep, practiced politician's voice responded, "You should try to understand. He's been missing for over five years. You can't really expect to find her surprised that his body was discovered." He walked past the police officers and gave Jane a gentle hug. "I just heard the news myself. I came as quick as I could."

"You know me too well, Rufus. Thanks for coming," Jane said. She turned to Guerard and said, "Of course, I'm not surprised. That park is an evil place."

Tony introduced the two, "Councilman Barleysmith, this is Agent Dean Guerard from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. The body was found on state lands, so he's leading the investigation."

"Please to meet you," Barleysmith said shaking the detective's hand. He turned to Tony, "and who are you?"

Tony was just one of the nameless, faceless uniforms of Pueblo; and he preferred it that way. "I'm nobody," Tony said. Barleysmith gave him a strange look that said he wasn't buying the humble pie. "I'm Officer Anthony Sacco, but today I'm just a chauffeur."

"Tony?" Jane said with a hint of surprise. "Didn't I go to school with you?"

"Yeah," Tony said with an embarrassment that said he knew he should have mentioned it before. The required small talk followed. He was still with Aileen and she was fine … Tony would tell her "Hey". Jane should stop by some time.

Finally, Guerard had about enough of that. "We would like to know about the phone call your father received the night he disappeared."

"I told the detective about this before," Jane insisted. "My father told me he received a phone call. I don't remember ever hearing the phone ring. I had no reason to doubt him."

A few more questions later revealed nothing new. Finally, Barleysmith pulled them aside. "I don't know what happened that night," Barleysmith said. Jane began to reshelve a slew of books she had out, pretending not to eavesdrop on the conversation. The mayor continued, "Many years ago, I considered Ray Mosi my friend and teacher. He had a presence that you just couldn't resist. Now that I reflect back on those times, I realize that my judgment was clouded by the stupidity of youth, Ray's undeniable charisma, and perhaps a few chemical inducements; if you get my drift."

Tony caught the drift. The sixties – he was glad to be too young to experience it.

Barleysmith paused, stroking his goatee, searching for the right words. "Activities that appeared natural and beautiful in the summer of love now feel seedy and disgraceful." He gave a look toward Jane, steeped in sadness. "Why is it, whenever adults err, it is the children who suffer?"

"What do you mean?" Guerard asked. "What are you getting at?"

"We felt free and blessed, but we were idiots." His gaze became determined, steadfast. "In every sense of the word, Ray Mosi was an evil man," Barleysmith said.

"Don't say that, Rufus. He's dead," Jane interjected.

"I'm afraid it's true. There are a number of people who would wish him ill. Like I said, I don't know what happened that night, but justice was served. If I were you, I would start with his wife."

"Where can I find her?"

"I have no idea. She disappeared almost twenty years ago. But she didn't care for how he treated her daughter."

Guerard continued to ask both of them questions. Tony was impressed with his tenacity, but they didn't learn anything new. Finally, they said their goodbye's and left the store. "What do you think?" Guerard asked.

"I'm beginning to think we should classify it a suicide and let it rest."

Guerard laughed at the insight. "I'd like to hear you explain that one. We have to wait for the medical examiner's report. I think you might be right. I don't think we're going to solve this one."

Tony stood by the police cruiser with the driver door open and stared back at the Blazing Crescent. "One thing that I find strange," he said. Guerard nodded for him to continue. "I don't remember exactly when Jane's sister was born, but I'm sure it was less than twenty years ago."

"What are you getting at?"

"You can sometimes fool others about the father of a child, but it is impossible to hide the mother," he said not quite sure how to interpret that detail. Somebody had to be Selkie's mother. "Where to now?"

"Let's head back to the station and find out about that medical examiner's report." Unsurprisingly, it turned out to be murder. Ray Mosi had drowned in the lake, but he also had an unidentified toxin in his blood.

**Owen**

"Who's there?" he said again. Nobody answered. Water dripped from a leak in another room. Incessant pounding of those drips unnerved him. He never did discover the origination of the slow trickle … rain or a leaky pipe.

It had been over an hour since Owen arrived back at the mill. He had eaten noodles and drank some water. Despite being after nightfall, Abby remained asleep in her bin. Her breathing was slow and raspy – moreso than usual. "Who is there?" he demanded in response to another noise. He couldn't shake his nerves. What was wrong with him? He was irritable and jumpy. The paranoia was overwhelming … heart beat pounded in his ears. _It's a wonder I can hear anything._

Owen lifted up the edge of Abby's blanket and studied her restless sleep. He pushed back the gray brittle hair from her cheek and noticed a few sores. _How long had it been since her last meal?_ Owen couldn't remember. She let out a painful groan, almost too quiet for Owen to hear._ She hasn't eaten since before I came down from the roof. How long has it been? That's not like me to forget. She is in pain_. Now that he thought about her, he could sense the pain; he felt the echo of her tightening spasms within his own bowels – 'the dreads.'

Another sound over by the western wall. Owen raced over and tugged at one of the enormous wheeled crucibles. He heard a scurrying sound … like rats, but nothing was there. _Dammit, what is wrong with me?_

Some of Charlie's powder should help … a little ... just to calm his nerves. He couldn't find the hypodermic needle. He glanced up at the hatch to the rooftop – maybe he left it up there. _I don't need the needle; I can try eating it._

He lifted up the plastic baggie from the ground and took a pinch between his fingers and placed it on his tongue. The barren dust and bitter taste was like eating baking soda. He coughed and gagged. He scraped his tongue against his teeth attempting to remove the harshness. Finally, he swallowed a few gulps of water from his soup can cup. The metallic tasting water from the steel mill faucet rinsed away the bitter flavor. Now Owen understood why nobody ate this stuff – it tasted awful.

But the little bit of powder he swallowed acted the same as when he ate a little bit of food – it whetted his appetite for more. He placed another large dab of powder inside his nose and inhaled. His nose and throat were set ablaze from the contact with the powder; but the fire awakened his senses – he felt stronger, more aware of his surroundings. After a few more sniffs, he set the baggie down with his belongings. His nerves were quieting and he became more at peace. He no longer noticed the reflection of Abby's painful cravings.

Something clanged on the floor over by the wall. Now that his anxiety was satisfied, he was more confident. Someone was there. Rather than call out he moved slowly in the general direction. His heart was beating with its normal quiet flutter, rather than a thundering roar, he could distinguish the sound. Listening to the air … there it is … labored breathing.

As Owen came closer, he heard the inward suction of breath, and then it held – the intruder tried to hold his breath. But he was too late; Owen knew where he was. It was coming from behind the third of seven giant cauldrons - a different one than he had inspected before. Owen lunged around and grasped at the arm right around the bend. "I got you now." The boy tried to squirm away, but Owen had a firm handle on the shoulder of his coat. "What are you doing here … Javier?"

"Let me go," he said wriggling wildly. He unzipped the jacket and pulled out of the sleeve. Owen was left holding an empty coat.

"I asked what you were doing here. It's not safe. You need to leave."

Javier tugged hard on the jacket trying to get it back. Owen overwhelmed him pulling him toward the steps while he struggled. Without taking a breath, Javier spewed out all sorts of ideas. "I thought maybe I could help you or something. Maybe I could bring you another light. It's pretty dark in here. I think we might have some extra lamps at home. Can't I help you anywhere? Please. I want to stay."

Owen wondered if perhaps Javier had been into the drugs. "No, we don't need any lamps. We don't have any power." He let go of the jacket and Javier fell on his ass. "You need to go."

"Why can't I stay?" He stood up and donned his jacket. "What about heat? It's pretty cold in here. We might have a kerosene heater." Javier scouted all around the mill floor while he was talking. "Where's Abby?" he asked.

"She's not here," Owen said with a little white lie. "And you shouldn't be here when she gets back. Now scat."

Javier skirted around Owen and headed over to the barrel where the fire burned. "It's warm over here, but the fire's burning low. I think you need to add more wood."

Owen glanced over at Abby's sleeping bin. There was no movement. He was thankful she continued to sleep while Javier was being such a nuisance. He tried the tough guy routine and that didn't work very well. It really wasn't his strong suit anyway. Maybe he would try rationalizing with Javier. "Abby is not the kind of girl that you want to get to know," he said.

"Why is that?"

Following Javier over to the fire, he added the final remaining loose planks to the fire restoring the coals to life. He hefted the pickaxe to split some more of the pallets into timber. "She doesn't care for pests," Owen said. "And she can be pretty vicious when it comes to things she doesn't like." He indicated to the crooked pile of pallets. "Hand me one of those."

Javier groaned as put his entire weight into lifting the pallet. It looked like it weighed more than he did. Swinging around he tried to carry it over to Owen with all of his might. Owen laughed at the struggle, until he heard another new noise. A quiet rattle rose from a newly exposed cavity within the pallets.

Several weeks earlier, Owen disturbed the rattler in the sub-basement. The snake slithered off to find another home within the factory. The nearby warmth of the fire and the darkness of the pallets must have suited his needs. Today's Indian summer temperatures restored him to life, and the annoyance of someone exposing his shadowy home fueled its fury.

Struggling with his load, Javier didn't even notice until the six foot snake struck his denim covered leg. Fangs dug into the stringy calf discharging its venom. Javier let out a whimpering yelp and dropped his burden onto the floor. The clanging echo of wood on concrete bounced across the mill. Without thinking, Owen grabbed one of the smoking planks he had just added to the fire and struck the snake just behind the head urging its grip away from Javier's leg.

Javier fell to the ground in pain. Out of reflex, he wrestled with his pants pocket, withdrew his inhaler, and rammed it into his mouth.

Owen ran over to his belongings searching for his pocketknife. He had found it in the belongings of the old man in the alley, but he hadn't needed it since then. "Take your pants off," Owen yelled.

A few spurts of mist restored the anguished cry. "What?" Javier gasped with his first few breaths of air. "It hurts," he said grasping at his leg.

"I know it hurts," Owen said. He found the pocket knife. "I need to try to get the venom out. Take your pants off."

The snake slowly writhed away from the pair with an awkward kink in his back. Owen had broken it with the strike. It wasn't evil. It was just trying to find a place to live, and they had disturbed him.

He helped Javier remove his pants and turned him over on his stomach. The two small dabs of blood in the back of his calf indicated where to cut. Many years ago, he learned in cub scouts the response to a snake bite. Cut two X's over each hole and draw out the blood. Quarter-sized black and purple signs of mortification radiated from the bite marks. Owen opened the knife and pressed down hard against the wound. The knife was dull, but with enough force, he was able to nick the spots. He placed his lips around both X's and sucked the poisoned blood. He spit it away and sucked again. _ This must be how Abby does it._ The blood tasted foul and corrupt from the poison.

_Abby, shit!_ … He heard the low rumbling growl just before Javier's howl of shock. Attracted to the smell of blood for which she so desperately desired her demon form emerged. Owen turned around and saw her leaping from her bed toward the two of them. Her midnight blue eyes penetrated the darkness.

Owen reacted without hesitation. He leaped up and positioned himself between Abby and Javier. He held her back with his arms and whispered to her, "No, Abby. It's poisoned. You can't drink it."

With her deep, rumbling growl she said, "Can't feel you … why?"

The inexorable pull of blood lust was in her, and Owen struggled to hold her back. She leaned in toward his neck, craving his blood with her outstretched teeth. Owen was of a mind to let her take him. He had considered it before; he wanted to join her. Angling his head away from Abby to expose his next, he relaxed his hold, accepting her need. Saliva dripped on his neck and seeped down to his shoulder. The spots burned from the contact. He felt her cold breath just before the graze of her teeth teased his neck.

Abby regained her self-possession and whirled around. She scampered across the floor and up the wall. Her wings extended from the nape of her neck. He never grew accustomed to that amazing transformation. Where did those wings come from? More than anything else, this confirmed that she was some supernatural creature. _But what kind … an angel or a demon_? Or a little bit of both.

Dropping from the ceiling with wings outstretched, Abby squeezed through a hole in the eaves that looked much too small for her. Owen was troubled by the idea that she was going to be the one hunting this evening. _It should be me_. Tempted to follow her, he couldn't bring himself to abandon Javier. He would accept Abby using him for food, but he couldn't just let him die. Owen returned to the boy and began sucking out the poison. "What was that?" Javier asked.

"It was the poison," Owen said. "You are hallucinating." He glanced up from his first aid and he saw Toto, the cat, with the dead rattler in his jaws. Owen couldn't kill it, but Toto could.

"I am not," Javier said with perspiration on his brow. He stared in the direction of the tiny hole through which Abby escaped.

After a few more minutes of first aid, Javier began to feel warm and agitated. _The hospital_. He tied his pants around Javier's waist and carried him over his shoulders, firemen style. Across the Fourth Street Bridge, he followed the blue and white "H" signs to the Emergency Room. By then Javier was beginning to experience feverish visions. He cowered from some imaginary apparition trying to fight it off. Owen begged him in vain to stop struggling; his ribs ached from the strain.

Resting him on the mat in front of the hospital entrance, Owen depressed the wheelchair button to open the door and ran. From a distance, he watched as the nurse found him on the cold sidewalk shivering. She called to someone from within the hospital who helped her load Javier onto a stretcher.

Owen was left to decided if he should search for Abby or return to the mill. The adrenaline surge left him a little shaken from the events of this evening. The drugs that had kept him going pulsed through his veins, but Owen felt them waning. He was beginning to drag. Not sure where to search for Abby, he returned to the mill and another snort of the white powder. That should keep him going until she returned. He didn't even stop to wonder why he couldn't pinpoint her location, like normal. He just didn't have the energy left.

**Reverend Fletcher**

Camped out at his spot on D Street, under the shadow of the three-story, shuttered Hampton Office Building, Fletcher began his nightly sermonizing. With night already falling on this beautiful December day, the cold was settling in. But the skies were clear and open to his message. Drug dealers on the street left him alone, working their deals out of sight, and none of the girls had yet arrived to display their wares. Fletcher preached to the stars. "Turn from the path of evil. That is the path to sin and death. Embrace life with Christ," he began to nobody in particular. Cars drove by; a few of them acknowledging his existence with a honk of their horn.

Before long, the first girl of the evening approached the corner. "Hi, Reverend," she said with a wink and a grin.

"What's your name, Child?" he asked trying to engage her in conversation.

She approached him and played with the strings dangling from his sweatshirt. "Moira," she said. "What are looking forward to tonight?"

"That's a beautiful name," he said ignoring her playful teasing. "I'm looking forward to reaching one person. You don't have to do this, Moira. You don't have to succumb to this fate."

Moira stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. "I know you're only trying to help," she said. "Unless you can replace the job my father lost when the steel mill closed, then I have to provide. This is the only work I can find."

Reverend Fletcher shook his head with disappointment. The jobs at the mill were good, high-paying jobs. Few lines of work paid more, but street-walking was one of them. "This path leads to death and destruction. It is a path of lies."

"It's the only path I know. Some of us make good choices, but others have our choices made for us." She gave him a demure look. "You're nice. If you're ever interested in a little recreation, let me know. Maybe I'll let you have a freebee."

"I know that face," Reverend Fletcher said. "Begone temptress. I have looked in the face of evil, and you have no power over me."

She laughed at his declaration. "My power is beyond your understanding." Moira shrugged and slithered back across D Street with a wiggle in her step. Before long a car pulled up. Laughing, she entered the passenger seat. Moira was a good child, but she was tempting fate. One day, she will become infected. It was only a matter of time before she was stricken. Fletcher had seen dozens walk down the same path. He knew where that path led - bitter and lost in the hospice.

Within an hour the carousel of women roamed the sidewalk. Some teased him; some heckled him; but most ignored his preaching. Only one – he needed to reach one person to make a difference. Tonight may not be the best night. The streets were busy for a Wednesday. "God has found a way to punish the path of sin. The pale horse carries death on its wings. He is called Pestilence."

The bright moon shined on the building behind him, casting a shadow that was taller than its three stories. A whisper or a flutter from above caught his attention. He stopped his incessant preaching and glanced up. A beautiful angel fell down upon him. Someone, one of the girls from across the street, screamed in terror. Fletcher couldn't understand why. Tonight he looked into the decayed, but beautiful face of evil, and he was powerless in her presence.

Filled with transcendent ecstasy, he felt himself carried up the wall toward the heavens. The emptying sidewalk drifted further away from his vision. Conveyed up the three story building, Fletcher flew higher and higher until they crested the rooftop. This delirious vision, an angel of mercy, had come to take him home. On top of the building, the tongue of the Holy Spirit kissed his neck with fire. He thought perhaps after this blessed event, he might be able to speak in tongues. For several minutes he felt the rough, relentless pull of joy, flow all the way from his toes into this being. The angel drew out his corrupt human blood and replaced it with a calming, celestial splendor.

She pulled back with a halo of blood around her lips. The beauty of her sad, penetrating blue eyes enraptured him. She gazed into his spirit and understood his nightly struggle to save one soul. Tonight was his turn. The delirium fed his strength; he felt vigorous, powerful, and immortal. With her gentle touch, she placed both her hands on either side of his cheeks, caressing him around his jaw_. Beautiful angel, why are you so sad?_ Just before she twisted, he had one fleeting worry – the hospice, who would take care of it? He heard the ethereal harmony of grinding vertebrae … then darkness.


	21. Chapter 21

Note: Chapters 21 & 22 were once Chapter 13

Chapter 21

Every Choice Has a Consequence

**December 14, 1988**

**Abby**

"_L'oncle, why must we break the necks of our victims?" Abby wondered of her patron. Consumed by the blood lust for seven years, she was eager to learn as much as she could about this new existence. She needed blood … fresh human blood; she knew that now. Without this diet, the ache became unbearable. After a few weeks or a month, she was no longer Abby, but a creature consumed by desire. And she was very alone. Forced to trust the generosity of her uncle's instruction, other facets of survival evaded her._

"_I'm no physician, moi chaton noir, but we sever the spine to destroy the parasite. The parasite is what keeps us alive. This prevents our victims from becoming like us."_

"_I know that it disrupts the connection between the mind and heart, but you misunderstand my query. Why can't our victims join us in immortality? That would add more members to our society. We would be less feared and more accepted." Desperate for friendship, she pleaded for understanding._

_Since the devastating loss of the war for New France, they had been moving westward, trying to stay ahead of the British expansion. Jean-Louis was convinced that the superstitious natives were amenable to accepting a new deity, and he would provide one. _

"_Abby you are being nonsensical." He chuckled at her simpleminded suggestion. "Does the farmer accept the chicken as an equal? They are livestock. These thoughts are not worthy of you." Jean-Louis tickled her nose playfully._

_The two of them had spent the summer in the care of the Cohokia tribe of the Illini. During a visit from a Jesuit missionary, Father Francois, their welcome was wearing thin. The Jesuit challenged their religious authority. To travel further westward, they had to cross the Mississippi River. For this, they would need the aid of "livestock."_

_After sunset, Abby and her uncle left their 'sacred' ceremonial longhouse where they found the Cohokia chieftain holding court in the firelight and the glow of the harvest moon with his new missionary friend. _

"_Chief Pontiac," Jean-Louis addressed the chieftain, "With our gracious visitor, I would ask you to select five of your finest warriors for baptism. We will cross the river for the ceremony."_

_Abby thought that the suggestion would have been received warmly by the missionary, but she was mistaken. "You should not force baptize the men," Father Francois insisted, "It is not necessary. They will discover the path with their own free will." But he was unable to overcome the powerful charisma of Jean-Louis. Chief Pontiac obeyed the request, beginning immediately. At Jean-Louis's word, the chief selected the warriors. _

_Abby followed her uncle to the river's edge, careful not to get too close. She and Jean-Louis entered two separate canoes. Father Francois and the five warriors lifted the canoes into the water where Abby and her uncle promptly fell asleep. On the other side of the Mississippi, Abby was surprised to find herself carefully lifted out of the canoe by two of the warriors. They acted exactly as her uncle advised them, even while he slept._

_Jean-Louis instructed the missionary to baptize the warriors, one at a time, in the muddy river water. After purilfication, they were to proceed to a clearing for the final ceremony with Abby and her uncle. "Why are we doing this?" Abby asked._

"_You will understand," Jean-Louis said. "Hold out your wrist."_

_As always, Abby did as she was instructed. _

_The transformation of her uncle already began. Abby was amazed; he had such power over his being! With his extended, sharpened fingernail he slit a narrow line into her wrist. He placed his lips against the incision and drew out his sustenance. The powerful current of blood drained out of her body followed by the piercing agony in her bowels. The pain, the cravings, the uncontrollable urges to replace the blood overwhelmed her. "S__'il vous plaît__, L'oncle, non," (Please, uncle, no,) she said resorting to her native French._

_Before long, the first warrior approach the clearing exhilarated by his Christian vows of renewal. Craving nourishment, Abby fell upon him. An animal, with a ferocious rage, she tore at his neck and drew a full measure of the satiating fluid. Seductive sweetness delighted her palate. Engorged with blood, she settled down on her knees in a contented listlessness. In the back of her mind, she sensed the rapturous wonder of the fallen warrior. Blood lust was only beginning to form in a state of blissful elation._

_Without resisting she allowed her uncle to take hold of her wrist once again. He drained the fresh blood, removing her will along with it, just as the second warrior entered the clearing. The cycle was repeated four more times, ending with the Jesuit priest. This final time, her uncle allowed her to retain the nourishment. In the darkness of the full moon, he was flush from blood-fat. The six men writhed on the ground with a need to satisfy their own thirst._

"_How do you feel, Abby?" He asked her._

"_Confondu … désorientées__ ... mystifié. Je ne peux pas penser directement__,"__ (__Confused ... disoriented ... mystified. I cannot think straight,__) __she wept in confusion. "It's a jumble. Each of the warriors' thoughts are crowding out mine own."_

"_Try to control them."_

"_I can't," she trembled, "there are too many of them."_

"_Your tumult is reflected in my own thoughts." He bent down, grasping the neck of the first warrior in both hands and snapped in clean. Abby's mingled thoughts diminished, becoming clearer. "You can control them, if you want. You have that power within you. Try simple commands." _

_Abby tried to will them to settle down, to lay still. They obeyed, but she could barely hold her own thoughts in the tragic furor of the others. In turn, Jean-Louis ended the existence of each one of the fallen. With every malevolent crack, she gained a little more function, until the final death when the voices grew quiet. "Now, do you understand?" he asked._

_She nodded. She understood. Imagine the confusion of hundreds or thousands of minds within her conscious. She would be immortally insane. _

"_That was amusing," Jean-Louis said with a chuckle. "You see – livestock. Not worth saving," Jean-Louis smiled with glee as he ended the live of the missionary. "You could have controlled the men, if you wanted. It is within you." _

"_You don't control me."_

"_Of course not," he said with a wicked grin. _

"_L'oncle, why did you select just a few warriors? Why not destroy the entire tribe? You could do it, couldn't you? I believe you could conquer the world."_

"_Every choice has a consequence. Without the assistance of the beasts, how else would we get across the river?"_

"_We need someone to help us across the river. I understand this, of course. But if you … uh... if you depleted the entire tribe, we wouldn't need to cross the river."_

"_You are very perceptive, moi chaton noir, but I am no thoughtless butcher." Jean-Louis' eyes were heavy and he gave a drowsy yawn. "Just a few warriors and I am exhausted. Who knows how long I would sleep if I devour the entire tribe? Years ... perhaps decades." Jean-Louis stepped away from the last of the fallen looking into the distance. "I have heard of a cave nearby. Why don't you try to find it? We should get there before dawn. Then I'm going to need a long nap."_

_Without question, Abby spread her wings eager to find the cave and please her uncle._

Abby awoke from her nightmare amid gravel and stench from the fallen warriors – not the warriors, the man she consumed this night. His thoughts mercifully departed from this world. The harsh dreams of her uncle had returned._ Where has Owen gone? _ Amidst the death and decay, she couldn't feel him. She could only smell the stench of corruption emanating from the body lying next to her. A few hours old, the blood was already dying. The putrid odor of mortification revolted her. Overcome with the lethargy of blood-fat, she buried her face in her hands. Abby emotionally reached out to find Owen, but he wasn't there.

"_What did you do?" _The memory of her friend, her past helper, struck with the fury of destiny_. The force of his open slap followed the outburst. "I guess you expect me to clean it up now. You fuckin' bitch!" He was one of the good ones. He cared for her. Abby knew he was only trying to help._

She had long since become accustomed to killing. It was as much a part of this half of a life as breathing for most people. But the sheer loss of mastery over her will harkened back to the past. In the first years after her blood was desecrated, she believed she was in command. Despite her presence, she was his creature. During this time Abby savored the few moments where she wrested that independence back from her uncle. Since he was gone, she had many more of these blessed moments where she possessed such self-determination.

Tonight had not been one of those moments. She didn't know whose life she ended, but she felt for him. Usually, Owen's calm composure would have held her back from the uncontrollable blood lust. Instead, she almost defiled him. She would have faced the difficult choice between sharing two wayward, perverse lives or abusing her moment of weakness and ending his. Subversion of Owen's will to her domination would be unbearable. It was a choice she struggled to avoid every day. Owen's blood sang out to her, but his resolute calm restrained her impulses. _Why can't I sense him?_ It was as though he was trapped on the steel mill roof, once again.

Abby stirred from her drowsiness, anticipating the coming day. She needed to move … get under cover. Looking over the edge of the building, Abby saw that the late night streets were empty. Those who witnessed her attack had long since vanished. She dropped off the roof, spread her wings, and returned to the steel mill through the aperture into the eaves. She found Owen resting comfortably on his mattress. She had been worried sick, and he was sleeping.

Whatever had blocked her sense of Owen was tapering off. Owen's dreams now reflected as an echo, more subdued than normal, in the back of her thoughts. But she had a longing to feel closer to him. The abomination of lifeless blood defiling her clothing was repulsive. She removed her fetid, bloody clothing and crawled up next to him under the blankets pulling his body close. Even this was not enough. She caressed the soft skin of his hand, grasped it tight, and placed it on her cheek. _Where are you, Owen? Please come back to me_.

**Jane**

Holding her gift of a fresh bottle of her own, home-made Calendula wine, Jane depressed the doorbell at the Barleysmith estate. She wasn't the least bit interested in polite conversation this evening, but Rufus can be very persistent.

Built in 1890 and overlooking the poorer row homes from the top of Goat Hill, the large adobe structure was one of the earliest buildings in Pueblo. Rufus purchased it with old family money when he decided to formalize his political aspirations. With the idealism of youth, he possessed a strong drive to benefit his fellow downtrodden only to discover that money controlled the outcomes of the political machine. Corrupted by fundraising, he found his altruistic intentions subverted by those interested in their own selfish demands, and willing to pay for them.

The first step in the political descent was to establish a residence within the city limits. Living in a tent outside of civilization is a poor way to become a member of the town council. Purchasing this house was a requirement to achieve his noble political goals. Now, as mayor-elect, these goals seemed even more distant.

The door open and Jane was greeted by Rufus's wife Elizabeth. _Here's old family money now,_ Jane thought. A few years younger than Rufus, Elizabeth Barleysmith was anything but old, she was well-preserved. Elizabeth came from old Denver mining stock, and her interest in the arcane attracted her to Pueblo. Her love for Rufus and her attraction to the trappings of his political ascent kept her there. Jane could never be a close friend. She blamed her for removing Rufus from their free thinking group, but she could tell that Elizabeth somehow loved him.

"Jane, welcome; thank you for coming," said the soon-to-be first lady of Pueblo. "I was sorry to hear about your loss."

"What loss was that?" Jane asked handing Elizabeth the bottle of wine.

"Why … your father, of course."

"I think you heard wrong," Jane said. "He was found." Elizabeth furrowed her brown, cultivating a perplexed expression which said that she had no idea how to reply. Jane considered it a result of some sort of medical condition, like stupidity. But Elizabeth was pretty. She had that going for her.

Rufus approached from behind his wife with his office winning smile. "I'll take that, thank you Jane." He took the bottle of wine from his wife. "Let me take your coat, as well." Rufus leaned over and kissed Jane on the forehead. Then he whispered so that his wife wouldn't overhear, "She was only being polite. You should just say 'thank you' and leave it at that." Jane just shrugged off her coat, handed it to Rufus and followed him through the cavernous two story foyer and on into the dining room.

The preparation of dinner by Rufus's staff was extraordinary as always. The three of them enjoyed an awkward meal in the formal dining room tiptoeing around the subject of Jane's father. Elizabeth asked questions about funeral arrangements, but decisions couldn't be made until the body was released. Elizabeth reacted in horror to Jane's suggestion that she might just allow the state to dispose of the remains. "That would be disrespectful of the deceased," she said.

With dessert (cream covered strawberries with an after dinner cordial – delightful) the conversation retreated to more neutral territory. Rufus said, "We have more important items to discuss. The winter solstice is nearly upon us. Next week is the big night. We have an event to plan. It's our biggest night of the year."

"I figured we'd do what we always do," Jane said, "A midnight ceremony at the park."

"I've been having some dreams..." Elizabeth said, "I think we can use the prayers in the ceremony." Enlivened by these changes, she spoke of the wonders in her dreams. "I have been inspired in all sorts of ways ... developing dances, writing chants, and working on drawings in the chamber downstairs." It was the most animated she had been the entire evening. "Would you like to see?"

"When we're finished, dear," Rufus said. All-in-all a much better meal than Jane would have eaten at her place. He continued, "We'll be heading out to the park on Saturday to prepare for the solstice. We'll spend five days enjoying the peaceful outdoors and prepare the altar for Wednesday's service. The weather report looks fantastic! You are welcome to join us. It would be good for you to spend some time away."

"I need to spend more time in the store." Elizabeth looked relieved when Jane turned them down. Jane continued with a quieter voice. "I don't like to spend any more time in the park that I need to. It's an evil place. I despise it there."

"After today, it's not hard to understand why," Rufus said sympathetically. "But Selkie is there, right?" Jane nodded. "It can't be all bad. She'll return for the solstice ceremony, won't she?"

"She knows when it is going to occur," Jane said. "The same place every year. I can't imagine her letting you down."

After dessert, Jane followed the Barleysmith's to learn of their preparations for the solstice prayer service. The stairs to the basement altar room were cut in stone as was the entire basement. Jane could never figure out how that was accomplished – dynamite, maybe. In the center of the room, beneath a chimney, sat a grand stone altar. Any smoke could be exhausted through a flue. Charred wood sat in the center of the altar under a small cooked bird, with its entrails removed and placed to the side. The burnt offering for the evening, presented before Jane arrived.

Along the walls, Jane noticed more than a dozen symbols drawn on the walls … patterns painted in. "What are these?" Jane asked. These weren't here after the election a month ago.

"These are my dreams. Aren't they simply amazing," Elizabeth said. "I've been having them almost every night. Sometimes I wake up and rush right down here to paint these wonderful ideas."

Jane saw many symbols she didn't recognize; the ones she knew made her very uncomfortable. Two crossed swords with their hilts pointing down, a plus sign, a simple lightning bolt, a todesrune (the Ugartic pitchfork, but upside-down), and a shepherd's crook, also reversed, among others. "You're not using your own blood are you?" Jane asked

Elizabeth nodded with a smile that said she was very pleased with herself. She held up her hand and the tips of several fingers were covered in band aids. "I'm using some of my blood mixed with the blood of the sacrifices."

"This is wrong," Jane said, "so wrong." She was angry. Rufus should have consulted her on these drawings when they began.

"No … no, I'm sure they are right," Elizabeth protested. "The dreams were very vivid, and I came down here immediately, painting them before I could forget."

"Blood magic is incredibly dangerous. When you paint them with blood, you give them your power," Jane said, getting a little agitated at the artwork. "These aren't meaningless symbols."

"Well, I would hope not," Elizabeth said. "I meant for them to have meaning."

"The swords, the plus sign, and the todesrune all mean death. The lightning bolt means dangerous change, the shepherd's crook means slavery. And the baphomet … even you should recognize that one." She looked at Elizabeth to see if she understood the impact. "You are calling on evil to bring death and slavery through dangerous change. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were possessed. I'm certain something is influencing your dreams. I would wash these walls, if I were you. And don't use blood magic unless you know what you are doing?"

Jane started heading up the basement stairs. "Thanks for everything tonight. I'll see you on Wednesday at the park, not before. Is everybody else coming?"

"There are so few of us anymore. I expect the Posey's will be there," Rufus answered.

"Whatever new prayers you were considering – I would forget them. They are probably derived from the same source." With that, Jane dismissed herself and stormed up the stairs.

Elizabeth turned to her husband and in a whisper loud enough for Jane to hear clearly, Elizabeth said, "I used to think that Selkie was the crazy one."

"Neither of them have had an easy life. It is partly my responsibility to help them along. Tomorrow we'll pack the camper and head on over to the park. I wonder where Selkie is camping tonight."

"You don't owe them anything," Elizabeth said.

"I owe them everything," Rufus said, tears forming in his eyes. "I knew and did nothing."

**Owen**

_Concealed by their crimson, wool blanket, Owen clutched Abby tightly in a warm embrace. With his fingers, he brushed her hair away from her face and behind her ear so that he could capture her otherworldly beauty. He shifted toward her, murmured a breathy "I love you", and followed up, grazing her ear with his lips, causing her to shiver. He pulled away from the kiss to gaze into her elfish face. The mysterious, cobalt blue eyes looked downward, as though she was embarrassed by the intimacy. The meaning Owen read in her eyes spoke of her need. Her slight, tender smile conveyed a simple joy. _

_He ignored the viscous, red drops dappling her cheeks and spread his lips for a soft, gentle kiss. Abby cocked her head to the side to guide the kiss even deeper. Their tongues touched for and Owen savored the sudden, crackling tingle of cold. Saliva brought moisture to the kiss – the sensation made Owen's heart skip a beat. He pulled away for a moment to catch his breath. Her eyes sparkled with contentment. He leaned for a second, more amorous kiss and Abby joined him in his passion._

_Being this close to Abby focused his attention. For all his awareness he could be on his mattress in the steel mill or in his bedroom in Los Alamos. He was trapped in the extraordinary fantasy of Abby's closeness. Filled with the concentrated energy of Qi, his senses were on fire. Owen savored every nervous twitch of her muscles beneath his caresses. _

_Despite his euphoria, Owen knew that imposing himself on Abby was shameless, even perverse. For her, romance was a thrilling, almost mystical notion; deeper passion meant pain. He couldn't let it go that far – but she wasn't forcing him away. The way her lips molded to his, the way that her body fit, and even the way the bones in her back shifted under Owen's gentle touch brought elation to Owen; but felt so awkwardly improper. Desire overwhelmed his distress._

_Abby's fingers brushed his skin underneath the hem of his shabby T-shirt. As his hands drifted downward, caressing her back all the way to the delicate curve of her hips, he became aware that Abby was naked underneath the blanket; with this realization his yearning intensified. Why was he still clothed? Enjoying this moment too much, he did not want to stop to correct the mistake. Her hips were moving in concert with the kiss. He moved his legs to intertwine with hers and pulled her tighter than before – anything to get closer._

Gasping for air, Owen awoke and struggled to remove himself from this embrace of the sleeping Abby. The dream felt all too real. He clung to her tightly, just as he held her in the dream. At twelve, he was thrilled by Abby crawling in bed next to him. At eighteen he was troubled by the innocent gesture and disturbed by his longing. _She is just a little girl. I'm supposed to protect her – not molest her_.

He held onto her for a few more moments as his passion ebbed. Unlike the porcelain glow of his dream, her skin was cracked and sallow. Almost like one of those dry, desiccated mummies of Ancient Egypt. Her brittle hair crunched when he playfully ran his fingers through it. Despite these imperfections, or perhaps because of them, Owen still found her mesmerizing. He wanted to keep holding her, keep her from leaving him. Finally, he pushed himself away from their embrace and stepped off the mattress onto the cold, concrete.

Moonlight shined through cracks in the wood covering the windows. Abby's bloody clothes were scattered around the floor. Owen gathered them up and tossed them into the furnace before he completed his morning routine. In the bathroom, a splash of cold water roused him from his sleepiness. He doused himself a few more times to shake the memory of the dream. She was too close, and he was troubled by his lack of willpower.

Returning to the main floor, Owen found Abby stirring. "Would you like me to clean you up?" Owen asked. Abby sat up in the mattress, running her hand through her mussed, crackly hair. With a worried sleepy, grimace she nodded. Owen averted his eyes in embarrassment when the blanket fell to her waist. The dream was too sharp, too confusing.

He carried the bucket and cleaning supplies to the bathroom. While filling the bucket and soup cans, he splashed some more of the frigid water on his face. He needed to quiet the frustrating impulses. _Eighteen years old, and my only experience was with a guy_ – maybe he should consider one of those street walkers. Thinking of Abby, Owen wasn't interested in them. They were shadows of her beauty.

Upon returning, Owen found Abby solemn and disconsolate. Through their bond, he could feel worry. "What's wrong?" Owen wondered

"I had to kill someone tonight."

"I figured as much," Owen shrugged. He a few more timbers to the fire, checking to ensure that there wasn't a snake hidden in the pile of pallets. "I'm guessing that's where the blood came from." He added the soup cans to the coals to warm them up. The labels crackled brown from the heat.

"Aren't you angry at me?" she asked. "Don't you think I am a 'fucking bitch'?"

"What?" Owen looked over at Abby, dumbfounded at the reaction. She was terrified of his judgment. He sat down next to her, returned the blanket to her shoulders. She flinched when Owen reached for the blanket; in anticipation of a possible strike … like she thought he was going to hit her. He pulled her close. "No, of course not. I know what you have to do. Why would I be angry?"

Owen wondered what type of person had she been with before – someone who struck her when she did something wrong? Someone like Owen's father or maybe someone who found joy taunting a demented, homeless man in diabetic shock. He wasn't like these people; he wasn't tough enough for Abby. Abby needed someone stronger. A person who could ignore the pain of death; who could impartially plan out the process; and who could kill. He wasn't sure that would ever be him.

Abby settled into his chest. "Thank you," she whispered with a child-like smile.

Owen rocked her slowly, steadily in his arms. "Did anybody see you?" he asked.

Afraid once again, Abby hesitated at the question. She tried to draw herself away, but Owen wouldn't allow it. He held her tight … for as long as she would let him. "I'm not sure," she answered. "I think so, but I left the body out of sight."

"It'll be okay," Owen said. "If there is any trouble in town, we'll just find a new place." Owen continued to hold her in silence for a few minutes while she regained her strength. He sensed her worry and frustration seep away. At least he did something right.

"Where were you?" she asked.

"After taking Javier to the hospital, I've been right here the whole time."

"I couldn't feel you," she said and Owen felt her puzzled thoughts. "I thought I may have lost you."

"I'm still here," he answered in tender amusement. He kissed her brow. "You haven't scared me away. Not yet anyway." He smiled at the thought, but he was worried, too. He never understood the rush of emotions from Abby, but he could not recall her thoughts from last night, either.

He rose and checked the warmth of the water in the fire. Not quite ready, yet. While waiting, Abby lied down on the mattress and pulled the blanket over her head. _She's always quiet after a meal. _After a few minutes he collected the bucket of warm water, stirred Abby awake and began the cleaning, almost by rote, doing his best to ignore the way her nakedness brought back the memory of his dream. When he sloughed off the dead skin and blood or combed out the gray sheath covering her hair, Selkie's prayer helped to distract him from his desire;

"_To clean the heifer's blood, the bowels, the hide_

_Destroy the serpent stain which dwells inside_

_Witness the uncoiling faint wisp of smoke_

_Pray dear Paraclete, Eleazar invoke"_

Owen thought that perhaps this ritual was for him. He had to invoke Eleazar to purify his filthy thoughts and prepare him for his task. "Don't call me a heifer," Abby mumbled angrily. "I'm not livestock."

After the cleansing, Abby was decked out in her new Woolworth's outfit. She crawled under the blanket and fell asleep for the day. Owen lied awake with trepidation … the fear that Abby may have been seen. He would need to scout out a new city or town. Thoughts of the poem invaded these fears. _Wonder what 'Paraclete' means? Sounds like a set of soccer shoes._

**Selkie**

Not sure how long she slept, Selkie arose, well rested from her slumber. Next to the abyss, she almost forgot that she remained in the land of the faerie. A bright full moon illuminated the landscape creating eerie shadows in the outcrops of the rocky chasm. A massive winged stallion towered over her. He must be over thirty hands. No longer attired in Toto's midnight black feathers, his fur had stretched out transforming into pale gray, almost white, the color of ash. Selkie rubbed his foreleg witnessing the powerful muscle tissue resting just beneath the surface.

"You must be the horse of a different color." She laughed in her staccato-style at the joke. "I guess I can't call you Toto anymore. I wouldn't seem quite right."

"I am Ozryel," the horse whinnied, "A measure of barley for a day's labor."

Ozryel … the name sounded familiar, but it wasn't a moniker she would have considered. "I was thinking something more like Pokey."

With a look from the stallion, it became clear that "Pokey" would be unacceptable. "Are you an angel?" Selkie asked while continuing to caress his foreleg.

"Yes, I am," he said. "It is time to ride."

"Okay, great and powerful Ozryel, let's soar to the cedar."

Ozryel held out his foreleg on which Selkie placed her boot. In one swift motion she heaved herself astride his withers using his mane as a handhold. As she settled in front of his pale wings, she patted his neck. She placed her arms around his powerful neck and embraced him. His flowing mane tickled her nose. "I'm ready. I'm not afraid," she said.

Ozryel pushed off and soared high above the canyon. The chill wind buffeted her beret, blowing it off her head. The Pegasus soared around the inverted island. In the bright red moonlight, a muddy river ran below them, underneath the tree-topped butte.

Circling low Selkie realized the river was not water at all. It was a mass of copper-skinned bodies lined head to foot all the way to the horizon in each direction. The trickling sound of blood dribbled from open wounds and coalesced to form a thin red stream.

A little boy stood at the river's edge. Dressed in wheat colored leather, he was morose and despondent. "We need to talk to that little boy," Selkie said to Ozryel. "Land on the bank next to him so that I can discover what he knows."

After dismounting, she asked the boy who he was and why he was here. "I am Miakada, a child of Ramah … the radiant light holding back the darkness. I cannot rest."

"Where are your parents, little child?"

"My mother sent me away … she is in the river," he answered gazing solemnly toward the bodies. "I found my way to the blue shirts and they took pity on me. I am the dam restraining the river of death. The river must be restored to life. Why is it so cold in here?"

"We should help him," Selkie pleaded to the massive stallion.

"I am not strong enough to carry both of you," Ozryel answered. "His life imprisons the child of Lilith. The other … he needs help. Miakada has protected the river for nearly a century. A few more moments will not matter. After I deliver you to the island, I will return for Miakada."

Selkie understood Ozryel's concerns – Finvarra needed saving. She embraced the boy and kissed him on the cheek, "you are so brave," she said. "We will help you when we can."

Selkie gave Miakada the last drink from her canteen. For now, the most she could do for him. "Please, come back to me," he said. Resigned to his fate, he guarded the river.

Dry once again, she filled the canteen with the red flowing water of the river. She climbed back astride Ozryel and together, they pushed off.

"Please, come back to me." The boy lamented even louder. "I am so tired. Please. I need you to take my place," he cried out in abject fear.

As Ozryel circled higher, the cries became more distant and were replaced by Finvarra's distressing wail. She made the right choice to follow her heart. The boy could wait.

Nearing the island shrouded by the tree, Selkie saw the three vultures … Finvarra's 'friends'… perched on high branches. Their feathers had molted off to give the appearance of pallid, leathery skin. They looked like toads with wings. Their eyes bulged from the horrors they have witnessed.

Ozryel tried to drop Selkie at the top of the tree, but he could find no foothold. Instead he flipped around and settled on the narrow strip of grass next to the trunk. They were upside-down with their heads facing the direction of the dead river. Strangely, they didn't fall. The tree had grown enormously since she was last here. Selkie dismounted from the stallion and used her army knife to carve hand and footholds in the gargantuan eight-foot diameter trunk. When those were complete, she stepped into the holes and added a few higher cavities. In this way she inched up the nearly hundred feet to where her husband was held hostage. After several days of struggle she found herself staring into the emaciated, barren eyes of her husband. "I'm sorry I took so long," she said gently caressing his face.

With eyes closed against the moonlight, he responded with a sharp, stabbing wail of horror. "I have done nothing wrong," he lamented. "Why am I being punished?"

"I am here my love," Selkie answered. Her chest ached with empathy. "I will comfort you."


	22. Chapter 22

Note: Chapters 21 & 22 were once Chapter 13

Chapter 22

When the Levee Breaks

December 19, 2001

**Owen**

Completely unfit for company, Owen was itching to return to the Blazing Crescent. Bouncing off the walls - a little kid waiting for Christmas – like he was on drugs or something. He was anxious and disoriented waiting for the day when Jane received the saint's blood. Even in the joyful moments on the rooftop, he couldn't hold onto a conversation. On Sunday, while Abby slept, he wandered by the esoteric bookstore, only to find it closed – just like every Sunday. He'd have to wait another day.

Finally Monday arrived. The cloudy chill wouldn't dampen Owen's optimism. Arising early he paced in front of the Blazing Crescent. With a tired sigh, he realized he was there a half-hour before opening. His skin burned with eager anticipation from the fire of hope. The first step of the cure, he knew. Abby would be whole and the dreads would be over. Sometimes, he dared to imagine what life would be like after …

Thirty-seven steps. That was how many it took from the Blazing Crescent to the curb. _That's funny – it was thirty-eight last pass._ He stared at the shuttered front door trying to will it open. _Perhaps Jane wasn't awake, yet. Maybe I should go around back and check._ Instead he turned around and began measuring off the paces once again. Absentmindedly, he glanced at his wrist. He didn't even own a watch.

Streets were beginning to fill with people completing out their daily tasks. Many of them glared at Owen in disgust of his apparent vagrancy, but it was the Christmas season – a few were generous with their change. He collected over a dollar. He decided to find out how far it was from the other curb. He began to count out the paces when he heard the familiar tinkle of the Blazing Crescent door.

"Owen," he heard stemming from the opening before he could turn around. "What are you doing here?"

He turned around and jogged to the opening. "It's Monday. I came for the sample. Do you have it?"

"Not yet," Jane said. "The post hasn't arrived."

Owen burst through the door and turned on the light, making himself at home. "When do you expect it?"

"It's coming by UPS. I don't expect it until after lunch."

Owen sighed with disappointment. A few more hours. He'll just have to tough it out. "Is Selkie back?"

"No, she is still on her journey of self-discovery. You're stuck with me."

Owen would have preferred to work with Selkie. She seemed more open to the possibilities and the importance of a cure. "I have some questions about the poem. Maybe you can help me out."

Jane continued through her machinations of opening the store. She focused on counting the money in the cash drawer, ignoring Owen. He found Selkie's worksheets slid into the shelves next to some of the books. He pulled them out and placed them in order. "What is the 'Paraclete'?"

Owen patiently waited, while Jane place the money in the cash drawer and made some notes. "You should know who the Paraclete is." Owen continued to stare at Jane waiting for an explanation. Finally Jane sighed and relented with the answer, "Most Christians consider the Paraclete to be the Holy Spirit. But the reference in the poem isn't Christian … it's Jewish. In Judaism, the term refers to an advocate – a human intercessor. In this case, I guess that's you, right?"

"That seems to make sense," Owen said not sure that he carried that much importance. "I have a few more questions."

Jane ambled to the rear of the store with Owen. "I can help you with as much as I can … at least until I get some paying customers. This could be a busy day with the solstice a few days away."

_Was that a dig?_ "Who is Lilith?"

Jane gave a knowing smile, "Lilith is a well known figure in the occult literature. I'm surprised you don't know who she is." She paused waiting for effect. "Lilith is the first wife of Adam."

"Like Adam and Eve?" Owen asked. Jane nodded in agreement. "He had a wife before Eve? I don't remember that from the Bible."

"In the very first chapter of Genesis, God created mankind in his image ... male and female he created them. Then, later in Genesis, God creates Eve from Adam's rib. This woman before Eve is Lilith."

Owen was transfixed about the story. He had never heard of Lilith. "What happened to her?"

"The story is that she was cast out of Eden long before Eve. She found her way to hell where she became the consort of Satan. According to this teaching, vampires are all the children of Lilith. It would seem that this poem has everything to do with you."

Owen stared at the text of the poem wondering if that would make Abby a child of Lilith. While he studied the writings, Jane continued, "Or this is just Selkie's way to keep you interested. She knew you were interested in vampires. Owen, I wouldn't put too much faith in this prayer. I don't think it means anything."

"I have to," Owen said. "I need something to believe in."

Jane continued, "Then again … maybe you should think of it more like prophecy. The meaning of the poem may not become apparent until after it occurs."

Two customers entered the store. Owen worried for a moment that it might be a police officer, but it wasn't. They were chatty, younger women with straight, long brown and gray winter coats. _Sisters_? Owen was embarrassed by his mottled, bleach stained overcoat – the one he removed from the dead man. He sheltered himself in the back of the store trying to review the books for some more ideas.

Owen tried to will the women to hurry up, but it didn't work as well as it did sometimes with Abby. These women were busybodies bragging about their children, asking for the best elixirs for curing colds, and discussing how to celebrate the holiday. For the cold Jane suggested Echinacea – a teaspoonful three times a day. It works best in orange juice. In three days, the customer should expect to see marked improvement, but she should continue to take the herbal remedy for at least a week. Before they left, several more customers entered the store.

After the sudden rush of customers was complete, Jane had to clean up a few areas and restocked the shelves with supplies from the store room. Apparently, candles of all sizes and fragrances were very popular for the solstice. Owen wanted to catch Jane quickly before more customers arrived. "What do you know about the 'river of life'?

Jane continued to replace items on the shelves while talking, "The river of life could be almost anything. It could be an actual river like the Nile or the Arkansas ..."

"But the Arkansas River is dead," Owen said. "I've seen it myself. There are no fish in the river."

Jane considered the idea for a moment, "You're right. The Arkansas River may not work for this prayer. But the 'river of life' can be more than just a physical river – a river represents a journey through life. Sometimes, the river just means a protective aura. Your life could be the river of life,"

"That narrows it down," Owen said sarcastically. "I hope it isn't the Nile River. That is pretty far away. And if it is someone's life journey, how can you bathe in it?" Owen said with exasperation. _This is no help for me._ Finally he wanted to ask one last question of the poem "Mine the essence of hope. I'm really having trouble with this one – am I supposed to mine a metal, like gold?

"I've heard that hope can be represented by a bright star in the sky … brighter than anything we've ever seen," Jane said. "The ascension of that star is supposed to harken a golden age of peace and prosperity. Maybe you have to wait for that star to appear before conducting the purification ritual."

Owen understood how a star could bring hope. This theory still did not make sense. "But then how would you mine it?" Owen asked.

"I don't know," Jane said with an exaggerated sigh. "Maybe you're right – it is gold or perhaps diamonds. There is a Hope diamond."

"Diamonds?" Owen groaned, "I hope not. They're from Africa, too ... just like the Nile."

"That's where they are mined, but on the opposite side of the continent.

"Dammit, how am I supposed to get all the way to Africa?" Owen was exasperated with these theories. _And I sure can't afford a diamond._ "It's gotta be gold. Do you know where the nearest gold mine is? We have those in the western states, right?"

"Sure … gold, silver, copper … all sorts of precious, hopeful metals. There was a small gold rush not far from here. You could probably learn where the nearest gold mine is at the library."

_Back to the library, I guess_. The door bell sounded and another older lady entered the store.

Jane approached the customer. "What can I do for you today, Mrs. Stolar?"

"I've been suffering with a bad cold lately. An herbal store in Denver recommend Echinacea, but it hasn't been helping at all."

"I see," Jane said, "the problem that Echinacea is more of a preventative for colds. You take it at the first sign, and it helps but it is not much of a remedy. Do you have a vaporizer?"

Mrs. Stolar shook her head, and Jane pulled out an electronic vaporizer. "You want to mix two teaspoons of ginseng in two cups of water and place it in the bowl. Run the vaporizer on the mist setting while you sleep. You also want to take five drops of pelargonium extract three times a day. The results are different for everybody … in a few days, you should start to feel better, but don't stop the treatment for at least a week."

Owen was amazed at the way the customer devoured this nonsense. Mrs. Stolar forked out $150 for folk remedies. After the customer left, Owen asked Jane, "So which one is correct the Echinacea or the ginseng?"

Jane shrugged, "Both … neither. I'll let you in on a little secret. When you have a cold it takes seven days for you to recover. If you treat it with one of these remedies, it only takes a week. I'm not selling a cure … I'm selling a story."

"I think you should sell orange juice," Owen said. "What do you take when you come down with a cold?"

"I take Sudafed."

A man dressed all in brown uniform entered. Jane signed for a number of packages, including the small parcel containing the blood collected from the Mary statue. She sliced open the tape and pulled out a small red, glass vial. "Here it is," she said handing the liquid hope to Owen. That should be about it." She paused to give Owen a chance to savor the moment. "I've done everything I can for you. Don't bother coming back."

Owen had to ask, "Which did you sell me ... the Echinacea or ginseng?"

Jane laughed, "Don't be silly. I didn't sell you anything. But I've answered all of your questions … Now you don't need to ask Selkie anything."

"I'd like to talk to her … to see if she has any different ideas that could help. Maybe she learned more on this trip to the land of the Faerie."

"I've told you this before. She doesn't need someone feeding her fantasy. I'll say it as bluntly as I can … stay away from Selkie."

Owen left the front entrance to the Blazing Crescent. He had thought Jane was being helpful … in the end, she wasn't being very friendly. Owen considered going to the library to investigate some of these ideas, but the visit left a sour taste in his mouth. It wasn't money, but Owen paid for the stories. The currency was exile from Selkie. For some reason, Owen thought this was worth more than money to Jane.

_I don't have to worry about Jane. I won't have to seek out Selkie. Selkie will find me. Let's see Jane try to stop her._ It sounds like one of those impossible science problems. And if Jane was an immovable object, then Selkie was certainly an irresistible force. Owen's money, what little he had, was on Selkie.

**Javier**

First day back from school after his injury, Javier expected a brutal ribbing from his classmates. When you expect the worst, then reality doesn't seem so awful. Even Raymond's dig wasn't very effective – he called them Javier's "love bites". Javier just laughed at the insult. As though love bites would be degrading. Even in his isolation there was a little admiration. Javier grew tired of the number of times he was asked to uncover the wound and show-off the marks.

At recess, with the recent warm spell ended, a chill had set in on the elementary school playground. Javier hung out at the brick wall with Caleb and Lazarus. Once the subject of rattlesnakes was exhausted, he asked his friends the standard question for the time of year, "What did you ask for from Santa?"

He wondered what sort of toys that first graders found interesting, so he was surprised when Caleb answered, "Socks."

"Socks, what kind of socks are more important than toys?"

"Warm socks," Caleb said with a smile. He pulled his pant legs up to show that he wasn't wearing any under his mismatched sneakers.

Javier motioned toward Lazarus, "What about you? What did you ask to get at Christmas?"

"A home," Lazarus answered.

_If Caleb thinks small, I guess Lazarus thinks big._ "I'm not sure that Santa could fit that down the chimney."

"There's no chimney at the shelter," Lazarus replied, "No Santa either. He's just a fat old man from the church dressed in a red suit."

Javier was horrified at this truthfulness in front of six-year old Caleb. To his surprise, Caleb was already in on the secret. "Yeah, but he's a nice old man," Caleb said.

Lazarus ran through the Christmas routine at the shelter, "Our Christmas wishes hang on a tree at the Church for a week or two. Somebody chooses it and buys us what we want. On Christmas the jolly old man comes to the shelter and distributes the presents. The food is good – just like on Thanksgiving."

"You should've asked for something better, like a game or a sweatshirt," Caleb said.

"Why bother? Last year I asked for a life. I didn't get one of those either. They'll figure out something to give me. What about you, Javier, what did you ask for?"

Javier had asked for the new Nintendo Entertainment System_. I don't think these two would understand._ The tall steel factory smokestack reaching into the sky gave him an idea. "Wings," he whispered. "I think I would like wings for Christmas."

"I don't think that will fit down the chimney either. I have a better chance of getting a home," joked Lazarus.

_Maybe,_ Javier thought as the end of recess bell rang.

**Gabriella Agosto**

"The marines turned me down," Billy said sitting at the table in the shelter cafeteria. "It looks like I'm not going anywhere."

Relaxing after lunch service, Gabriella struggled over a knot in the mittens she was knitting for the residents. Father Erasmus sat in a seat across from them, pretending to read the diocesan newspaper. Isabel Clark bottle fed her daughter while ignoring Aileen's efforts to wipe down tables with old dishrags and soapy water. The after lunch clean up was nearly complete. Gabriella asked Billy, "Why is that? Didn't you do well on the test? They might let you take it again."

"I did fine on the ASVAB test ... high marks. Based on my results I had my pick of assignments. But I failed the physical. I'm deaf in my left ear," Billy answered. "I've been waiting for the right time to tell you. I guess there is no right time."

Stunned, Gabriella lowered her knitting into her lap, "I think I saw that Kenny in the library the other day. He's hard to miss. I knew I should've asked campus police to arrest him. We can't allow him to get away with this."

Father Erasmus, sitting at the table across from them, looked up from his reading materials. "What would that solve?" he asked.

"Solve?" Gabriella was astonished at the response. "This is about what is right. It's not about 'solving'. He should have consequences for his actions. Otherwise, he'll steal again."

"No," Billy said with more conviction that he normally displayed. "The police won't do a thing. I'm not pressing charges, and there weren't any other witnesses. I'm more worried about what to do next in my life. I'm at the crossroads."

"What about trying the army?" Gabriella asked.

"I stopped in their recruiting center and picked up some information. I don't imagine there are a lot of opportunities for the half deaf in the army."

"It's a setback," Padre said. "Give yourself some time. When one path closes, another one opens. At your age, it's all opportunity." He rose from his seat and with a wry grin suggested, "You could try the priesthood."

"My parents would love that idea. It's so tempting that I may even try it," Billy said with a chuckle. Then he glanced over at the very irritated Gabriella. "Maybe I won't consider the priesthood for awhile."

"I'm sure you will have many opportunities. The priesthood will still be there when you decide," Father Erasmus pushed in his chair and donned his gray fleece jacket. "Are you ready to go, Aileen? "

Gabriella wondered about this new arrangement, "Where are you headed?"

"The AIDS hospice. Reverend Fletcher has been missing for days. Nobody seems to know where he's gone. Aileen has agreed to help on her days off. We're heading over to get up to speed."

"Just a minute," Aileen said, "Let me get my things. Would you like me to drive?"

Padre nodded, "I'll walk back. It isn't too far." As if to punctuate the concern, Isabel Clark sneezed away from her little daughter. "I hope Fletcher shows up soon. I'm not sure how the hospice will make it without him."

December 21, 1988

**Owen**

On the night of the solstice, Abby woke up from her daytime sleep anxious and worried. Owen had been beside himself waiting for the blood to arrive, but now he could not bring himself to mention it. He let two days pass before raising the possibility of the cure.

"What's wrong?" Owen asked when he recognized her discomfort.

"I'm frightened," she said.

"Me, too. We should leave…tonight." Owen pulled out his map of the Western United States. "I've gone over the map and marked all the places we've lived – Dalhart, Keyes, Dighton, Boulder Flats, Randlett, Alamosa, and, of course, Pueblo – twenty-three towns in all. I think I have captured each one of them. It's kind of funny how all of these towns circle around in a big spiral till we reach Pueblo – right in the center. I need your help identifying the places you were before me. I want to make sure we don't stir up old memories." The unfolded map lay on the concrete floor of the steel mill. Owen had marked each of the cities on the map. "I thought maybe we could sneak a ride onto one of the box cars from at the railway yard. By tomorrow, we could be halfway across the country. Hopefully, someplace warm, like California."

Abby sat on the edge of the mattress with her knees pulled into her chest. She stared off into the western direction, not even glancing at the map. "That's a good idea, Owen. You should do that. I'll help you break into the box car, then return to the mill."

"What? No," Owen said. "What do you mean? We need to leave together."

"You should leave. Start a new life." She turned her head and looked at Owen. "It will be good for you."

"I'm not leaving you," Owen said. "I promised you that. We both need to go – too many people know about this mill." _Maybe she wants Javier. He's tougher than me_. It made Owen wonder how Abby found him in the first place … because he was convenient. _That is a sad testament to my wasted life_.

"Please, Owen. Find some place better than this."

"There's no sense going without you." Disappointed in his failure, Owen folded up the map and tossed it in his belongings. "Heck, I could go home. What would I be running from?"

As they had many clear nights, they found their way up to the rooftop to stare at the stars. The waxing moon was nearly full and shimmered over the steady flow of the winter river. Owen held Abby close, but he felt her slipping away. "When did you start to call your last guy your 'father'?" he wondered out loud.

"Owen … don't," she said, sensing his frustration.

"I just want to know."

"Never. I never called him my father. People just assumed, and I let them." She settled into his chest, but it was awkward. The chasm between them was as wide as the Arkansas.

Owen held the vial of blood tucked in his pants pocket. He was dying to try it, but, now that he was alone with Abby, he wasn't even sure if it was something she wanted. _A cure for immortality? Who would want that?_ He reassessed her motives from the time he first met her. She has been very possessive of her 'condition'. Like it was something prized … like sharing it would somehow diminish it. In that light, Owen was more of a tool than a friend.

Owen carried his worries as the moon traversed the sky. They just watched the time slip away. Very few words were spoken between them – both sensed this growing distance. After his legs stiffened from the inactivity, Owen realized how much energy went into obtaining this vial. He couldn't let the chance slip by. And it would be a test for Abby – to discover if she was interested in a cure.

"Abby would you try something for me?" he asked breaking the silence.

"Sure, what is it?"

"I think it might help you; it might be a cure – for your disease."

The distance between them became even frostier at the suggestion. Owen could sense the anger radiate from her. Abby pulled away from him. "Owen, there is no cure. You need to give this up."

"If that's the way you feel, then don't try it."

He found an area of calm within and focused on it. He tried to project a sense of confidence … a sense of hopefulness in the discovery.

It worked … or at least seemed to. "All right, I'll try it," Abby said. But she didn't share his optimism.

Owen stood up on the roof, stretching the stiffness out of his back and legs. He pulled out the tiny vial and whispered the words of the poem silently to himself. The sample was so tiny, but he figured saint's blood must be at a premium. He unscrewed the small black, plastic lid off of the vial and held it out to her.

She recoiled immediately at the scent. Her brilliant blue eyes shined and her teeth started growing. Owen hoped this was a good sign. "Take it away," she howled in her throaty, rumbling roar.

Startled by the transformation, Owen tried to project certainty of success. "Please, you said you would try."

Owen had often heard the expression "if looks could kill ..." Abby's look of utter contempt might be successful. He moved the vial up to her lips and she stood her ground. Owen felt the first peal of doubt when she growled, "It isn't human … take it away."

Having no idea if saint's blood was human, or if this was blood at all, Owen stood his ground. For all he knew, that is what made it special.

He held onto her shoulder to try to comfort her … steady her. With his other hand he tipped the liquid into her mouth. As it poured he noticed tears welling up in her eye. A drop flowed down her cheek, but she swallowed the liquid.

Before long, Owen felt the echo of nausea form in his gut. Abby fell to her knees and rejected the offering, just as she rejected the candy so many years past. Another failure... _dammit,_ _I prayed this would work._

Owen kept his arm around Abby's shoulder, comforting her as she retched up the entire sample, and then some. "Thank you," Abby said.

"For what?" Owen said. "For failing - again."

"Thank you for trying … for believing," she answered. "I gave up so long ago."

Owen sat their silent. He knew she could sense his disappointment. Now, if he could only think of a way to convince her to go to California. In his heart, he knew he would fail in that quest, too.

That's when Abby began to wail in terror and agony.

**Selkie**

Selkie was overwhelmed by empathy with the vision of her tormented Finvarra. The bark of the cedar had overgrown his body, holding him hostage with only his head and feet exposed. His skin and hair crawled with mosquitoes and flies. Covered in blistering sores, he was barely recognizable as the gentle soul she loved.

Hanging over the abyss, Selkie was baffled by the gravity. At the crest of the tree, her hair rose toward the river … _or was that descended_? But the pull against her body was toward the base of the tree. She anchored herself with her legs with several of the smaller, limber branches which freed her hands. One of the vultures pecked at the knife and it flew from her hands toward the river. No matter – she had another tucked safely in her boot.

Selkie caressed Finvarra's anguished face. "My love, I have brought you something to drink," she said. She unfastened the canteen from her belt and dribbled the red liquid into his mouth.

The Faerie gulped down the refreshing liquid. "You are the one precious gem in this wasteland. I have done nothing wrong. Why does he make me suffer?" he asked continuing his denials.

The first vulture chimed in. "I tell you, my friend, you should thank Oberon for his justice. Surely, you know that he is kind and merciful. His justice molds you against the errors of your ways. Don't question his patient understanding."

"Rufus, you foul demon," Finvarra shouted. "You are no friend. How can I be molded when I don't even know what form to take? Others are far worse than I. This deprivation is a sham of justice."

The first vulture continued, "Surely you must have done something wrong. What pleasure would it give Oberon, if you were faultless? Perhaps there was an innocent person you did not aid … someone hungry or thirsty. It must have been something dreadful. Oberon metes out a wicked forfeit for the unworthy."

Selkie continued to care for her husband. "Have you no shame? You only add to his misery. He is your friend. Can't you see that he doesn't deserve this abuse?"

"I could never be friends with one such as this," the third vulture said. "How long will you continue to complain? Oberon's justice is proof of your evil. Your lack of understanding is your failure, not his. Submit to his mercy."

"Jane, don't say such things," Selkie cried. "You can't speak for Oberon. Your friend is struggling. Perhaps this is a test for you, not he. I've had it with your false sympathy."

Selkie pulled her small dagger from her boot and used it to peel away the bark tying Finvarra to the tree. The third vulture pecked at her hand, and she struck back with the knife. The vulture struggled to maintain his perch, flapping his wings wildly. Selkie struck again, knocking him from his tree branch. Fluttering wings knocked the second vulture from her roost as well. Together they tumbled toward the river. "Do you wish to stop me, Rufus?" Selkie brandished her knife in the direction of the remaining bird.

"Far be it for me to keep you from your task," Rufus said, "I don't have the strength nor the inclination. I wish you would reconsider."

"You should listen to him, my love," Finvarra said. "I haven't committed any crime, but I bow to Oberon's wisdom." His protestations were denied by the glimmer in his eyes - anticipation of his freedom.

Selkie carved more of the bark away from her love, uncovering his diseased body. "I don't pretend to understand Oberon," she said as flakes of bark peeled away. "This is something I must do. Otherwise, I couldn't live with myself."

After hours of struggling, hacking away at the bark, Selkie finally freed her beloved Finvarra of his imprisonment. That was when it all went so horribly wrong.

He flexed his muscles, restoring them to vitality. "Freedom. This feels wonderful," he said. With an evil glint in his bright blue eyes, he turned toward his final tormentor. "Rufus, I would like to thank you for teaching me about friendship." He grabbed the last vulture by the wings, keeping him constrained. Finvarra's teeth grew monstrous and sharp. He bit down on the neck and drew out the blood.

"Stop it, Finvarra," Selkie said. "You are free … leave it at that."

Finvarra let the rotted corpse of the last vulture fall toward the river. "Thank you, Selkie. You have been kind and gracious. But I am still thirsty. Vultures contain little blood, and I have been trapped for many, many years."

He reached out and grabbed Selkie by the shoulder. With the dagger in hand, she fought back, swinging uncontrollably. The force of the battle pushed Finvarra away from her shoulder and knocked her off the tree. She gasped in fear, falling toward the river while thousands of bodies raced up to meet her. With a calamitous thud she landed on the river bank. The river level had swelled. Bodies were flowing over each other trying to escape the river wall.

As she lost consciousness she noticed the little boy, Miakoda, lying on the bank of the river. He wasn't breathing. He was dead.

_Dear, sweet Mother Gaia, what have I done?_ Enshrouded by her Gore-tex lined sleeping bag, Selkie scrambled for the opening. _What an idiot! I trusted him … I loved that foul creature, and now I freed him._ The nearly full, gibbous moon reached its pinnacle in the sky. She studied the position of the stars; the solstice was here, and Selkie was on the wrong side of the lake.

Leaping on her bike, she left her campground in shambles. Jane was right. The Faerie world was an evil fantasy and she had fallen under its spell. Careening down the path, Selkie remembered where she knew the name … Ozryel … Asrael … the angel of death.


	23. Chapter 23

Note: Chapters 23 & 24 were once Chapter 14

Chapter 23

The Dead of Winter

December 22, 1988

**Owen**

_Was there ever a greater casualty than hope? _If so, Owen could not imagine one. He thought he knew the unpredictable nature of life with Abby, but tonight she left him with an ominous sense of despondency. Peering across the lifeless river, Owen felt his hope drifting away. His strained existence balanced on the belief that he could somehow help her. The more he tried, the worse it became. With screams of despair and discouragement, Abby's body rejected the blood from the Blazing Crescent.

The rooftop of the steel mill had been their oasis – their one place to physically escape the confining pressures of the city. Tonight, evil crashed their Garden of Eden. Their weakness was laid bare by the hopeless temptation of a miracle cure.

He could not know if Abby's scream rose from pain or fear or both, but her uncertainty hurled through Owen's own thoughts. His hackles rose from the chill of doubt, while a tingle crept slowly from his neck all the way to his toes before it settled in his gut. Abby's thoughts were a jumble of agonizing confusion. For the first time in years, she was utterly lost to him.

Abby trembled so violently that Owen had to grab her to keep her from tumbling off of the roof. Her head tilted back into Owen's outstretched arms. Her eyelids fluttered revealing her irises which shifted from a brilliant blue to an unnatural forest green to jasper red with gold flecks. Teeth began to grow and a harsh, discordant sound escaped her chest. Aroma of death and decay enveloped her. Nubs extended from her neck, pushing her hood off of her head, and blisters erupted on her cheeks.

"Abby, what's wrong?" Owen wondered. Abby ignored his protest of worry.

The nubs sprouted into wings as she tried to leap from her perch. At the last moment, Owen grappled with her wing in one hand and her ankle in the other. He almost followed her off the roof before steadying himself.

Frustrated by his obstruction she snarled back at Owen, but he held tight. "Laissez-passer," she growled, "laissez-passer!"

"I don't know French."

Snapping like a wild dog, Abby doubled back and pressed her snarling face into Owen's, knocking him onto the mill roof. She snaked her wing back and forth trying to free it, but Owen wouldn't release it. He held on with all of his power through the tumultuous beating from her wings.

Abby's strength proved greater than Owen's will. The relentless pummeling forced Owen away from her. She dropped off the roof and flew in a westerly direction, toward the river. Along the bank, she circled uncertainly for a few moments and then turned south.

Despite the furor raging through him, he tried to calm himself, steel his nerves and allow Abby to feed off of his confidence. _Abby, please come back to me._ The anger and furor he received in return felt nothing like her. His consciousness struggled for Abby's mind and understanding. As she drifted into the distance – first south, then east, then north, her thoughts diminished with the distance. She was searching for a way to escape the water boundary of the river. He tried to call to her, to beckon her return, but he failed.

From the encounter Owen's nose and lips were bleeding. They pulsed, throbbing in pain. He considered trying some of his white powder analgesic. Instead he found peace on the rooftop waiting her return. He chipped ice from the gutters and gingerly pressed it to his face. He didn't have anything to wrap around the ice – the numbing cold burned his skin. He tried to develop a cycle of pressing it against the wounds and pulling it away. He couldn't help but worry, _what if I lost her? What was wrong with that blood?_

Owen slowly began to wonder if his hope was destroying Abby. Striving to find a cure, he wasn't helping her at all. If anything, his pathetic attempts at help were making her worse – more agitated, more afflicted, more feral. His only hope for restoring Abby's humanity may be feeding her cravings. Owen didn't want to consider how far he must fall to reach this destination, but he began to sympathize with Abby's "father". Sometimes there are no good choices.

**Jane**

_Debits to the left; debits to the left_. It did nothing to stem her panic. Uproar created by Jane's juddering heartbeat overwhelmed the comforting litany. Terrified, she clung to the side of the narrow shoreline which harbored her from the catastrophe. She instinctively flicked her hand at a tickling sensation in her hair fearing an insect, only to discover a few wayward grains of rice. _Where'd that come from?_

Due to minimal precipitation and hard, packed sandstone, the banks of small streams didn't erode. These waterways meandered from the surrounding hills and mountains forming deep, spider web furrows around the lake. In one of these channels Jane sought shelter while the sum of all her nightmares played out in the clearing. Catching her breath she found a moment to wonder if it was really Selkie she saw at the edge of the shadowy grove during the clamor of pandemonium.

The bank provided a natural protective cove for Jane to consider the events from just a few hours ago. The winter solstice ceremony began routinely enough echoing the peaceful quiet of the season. Each of the acolytes burned the pine scented candle which illustrated the power of darkness over light on this, the longest night of the year. Tonight they acknowledged Ahriman, the destructive spirit, who was at the peak of his strength. The solstice was celebrated as the time when the gateway between darkness and light was at its weakest. Destruction was a part of creation, as death was a part of life.

Her thoughts wandered at the start of the song of enlightenment. The sun set on the crisp, clear entry into winter while the brisk wind caused the treetops to dance. All of the acolytes donned their pure white robes. She remembered completing the same rote tasks far back to her childhood … when they lived at the park in their rustic camper. The pitiful attendance was a far cry for their heyday in the sixties. Before the ritual, her thoughts drifted to the nearby evil lake and her sister who had not yet arrived.

The grove was arrayed around a tremendous ancient, carved cedar stump used as an altar centerpiece for their ritual. The small fire burned in the middle – the same one used to light all of their candles. Fire can purify as well as it can destroy – destruction and creation recreated symbolically. They burned the slips of paper on which was written their hopes and dreams for the coming year. The cedar smoke cleansing them from want.

From there, the solstice tradition strayed far from her expectations.

Rufus drew out a wavy, ritual dagger, deviating from the proscribed ceremony, and carved a slice into his exposed palm. The blood dripped and sizzled on the sacred fire while a solitary, gray cloud diminished the moonlight. Out of the shadows, darkness shattered the stillness; death broke through the gateway.

She couldn't shake the image of a blood-soaked Rufus reaching out to her – trying to escape the grip of twilight. Angst and joy cast from his twisted expression of pain. Bewitched by the splendor of death, Jane couldn't help him with his desperate plea.

Blood spray stained the purity of the ceremony and Rufus bent forward under the assault. Perched on top of his shoulders the demon studied the collection of participants and shrieked in amusement at his frozen prey. Its stringy hair and hood dangled behind, twisting in the wind. Jane was transfixed by the brilliant radiance of hate. As Rufus stumbled, the beast leaped from his shoulder. With its wings flapping in the breeze, the beast tore into Elizabeth's expression of euphoria. With a look of wonder and awe, Elizabeth fell to the ground. Then, grains of rice showered from edge of the grove, and Selkie screamed, "Run!"

Distracted, the incubus directed its snarling wrath on the child at the edge of the clearing - momentarily stirring Jane from her paralysis. Jane abandoned her sister to fate. She raced into the darkness, drawn toward an evil memory of Lake Pueblo.

Now, as she embraced her narrow precipice struggling to quell her fears, she worried mostly for her beautiful, unsullied sister. Here she hugged the coastline willing forth the coming dawn which was still hours away. _Could that thing smell? Could it see in the dark?_

She glanced up the fifteen foot embankment. Gravel and dirt started sliding down the hill followed shortly by Selkie. "We have to get out of here," Selkie whispered. "Across the river. That's our only hope."

Selkie studied the lake. At its narrowest point it was only about a quarter mile across. Selkie made a motion to jump into, but Jane stopped her. "Are you stupid? It is December. That water is freezing. We'll never make it."

"What if your life depended on it?" Selkie asked. She bounded into the water as though hers did. An unnatural cry wailed from above the treetops. Jane realized that Selkie may be right. She removed the white ceremonial robe, discarded it on the bank, and jumped in after her.

As she trawled across the lake the biting cold took hold, seizing her muscles. She no longer felt her arms and legs. The rippling water tried to pull her under with the fury of her father's memory. Her chin slipped beneath the surface. She risked a glance back to the opposite bank. Two piercing blue eyes forced her to keep moving. She removed her heavy coat that was pulling her under and let it sink to the bottom of the lake. A hateful flutter of wings heralded the disappearance of those eyes.

Before long, Jane found herself shivering on the opposite bank and following Selkie to the ranger's office. "Don't lie down. Keep moving," pleaded Selkie. "You need to keep your blood flowing."

Jane couldn't quell the fear that this was her fault. Owen anticipated the danger – a simple, apparently ignorant, request for the concentrated blood of a saint. She probably should have tried harder to find the right blood for him. And now, perhaps as a result of her failure, at least half of next year's business plan lay dead on the slopes beneath the Greenhorn Mountains.

**Tony**

"How much longer do I have to wait?" He asked his patient wife one more time. The months slipped by so slowly; he was standing still; two months since his exposure and he was drifting; spiraling into isolation and despair. His frustration, which had been simmering for all these weeks, boiled over into anger … anger at God, anger at the world, and, worst of all, anger at his family. In some ways he could justify his outburst._ While J__avier watched television his bedroom was a pig sty and, besides, dinner was cold_. But the force of his temper was indescribable … like it came from some other person. _Where was that carefree, happy-go-lucky football player_?

"It'll still be a few more months," Aileen said. They were sitting up late in bed. Javier was asleep after Tony had unleashed his venom on his family. That was wrong – now he was going to have to do something to make up for that; something extra special for Christmas.

"Nobody even talks to me anymore. The whispers … the stares … the innuendo. It's just too much. Sometimes I just lose it. I feel like I have to break something … or someone." His eyes welled up at the thought of loss … the big, tough ex-football player. "Everybody blames me for infecting Jesse. He gets sympathy, but I'm the bad guy." He knew in his heart this didn't excuse anger at his family. But he wasn't in a rational mood.

Aileen had seen the disease sap people's strength, but it was always so removed from her own life … she could speak to them with a clinical distance. "What about Roberto? He seems to understand."

"His priorities have changed. He has his own family to worry about now. He does what he can to avoid me. Hell, now that they missed the playoffs, we don't even have the Bronco's to complain about."

"Try not to take it out on your family. We can't help but love you." She held him close and kissed his forehead. "I guess I know where Javier gets it now. School has been quiet for a few weeks. I haven't had any irritated phone calls from the principal."

"I don't think it's genetic." Tony laughed at the idea. Javier wasn't even their natural born child. "I don't deserve your patience. Saint Aileen … the patron saint of wayward police officers."

The telephone ring stirred Tony from his melancholy. He fumbled around for the receiver. By third ring he picked it up and answered only semi-irritated, "Hello, Sacco's."

"Sacco," it was the station chief. _Why is he calling at this hour_? "There's been another incident at the lake. I need you to get out there, pronto."

Having already patrolled today, Tony was in no mood for the overtime. "Is this the time to mention 'State Park'? I'm pretty sure the patrol can handle it."

"Normally, I would agree. Or I would send an officer from the duty roster, but you've been specifically requested. I don't know what's going on, but it has something to do with those Mosi girls." He paused for a few minutes. "For some reason, this Guerard guy seems to like you. Just don't make me look bad."

"I get it," Tony said despondently. "I'll be there as soon as I can." Tony hung up the phone and looked over at Aileen's side of the bed. He was already regretting the lost opportunity for make-up action now that Javier was asleep. "There's been another problem at the park. At least the state detective can tolerate me."

"Guerard seems okay. What about him?"

"I don't think he really cares. He's just marking time until retirement." He started getting dressed in one of his winter uniforms. "It's not much to hope for … someone to tolerate my existence."

After getting dressed, he kissed his wife goodbye with a final, "I don't think this will take long, but don't wait up." He made a gesture of disdain toward the telephone receiver. "Make sure you disinfect that thing when I leave."

"Hurry back – but see if you can drop that attitude. Moodiness doesn't flatter you." She gave him a nice long farewell kiss making Tony once again regret being called to duty.

xXx

Less than an hour later Tony found himself in the park cabin. Kerosene space heaters and blankets comforted the two soaking women. Despite the warmth, the two of them shivered violently on each of their unsteady wooden chairs. Lost in some deranged world of her own creation, Selkie huddled in Jane's embrace with her head on Jane's lap. "They won't talk to me," Guerard said to Tony. "You're a familiar face; I thought maybe you could try."

Tony's heart went out to them … they were a far cry from the girls he remembered from high school – playful little Selkie tottering into Jane's arms. He knelt on the floor next to Jane. She held her quivering body in her arms. "Are you okay? Let me take a look at your hands." Holding both of her hands in his, he twisted them back and forth. The hands were pale white and wrinkled. "Can you move them?" Jane wriggled her fingers, they were a little stiff, but otherwise worked. 

"I think you'll be all right. Just keep warm. What happened?" Tony asked the sisters. He assumed this had something to do with finding their father's body in the lake. They were wet – maybe one of them tried to rejoin him in death. It was the sort of thing they were prone to try.

Disoriented, Jane glanced furtively around the ranger's cabin as though she were unsure where she was. Almost silently, in a whisper, she said, "They're all dead."

Tony looked to Detective Guerard for some answer. Guerard shrugged in response. He turned back to Jane, "Who's dead?"

To his surprise, Selkie answered first, "The last of the Jicarilla, is dead. In my folly, I killed him … I killed them all." She sobbed into Jane's lap. "Why didn't I listen to you? This lake … this place is evil, perverse."

"Shh, calm down, Selkie. You tossed the rice. It was your quick thinking that saved us." Jane rubbed Selkie's back in comfort, and then turned toward Tony. "We were in the clearing, when we were attacked. I am certain some of the others were killed."

"Who was killed?" Guerard asked. "Are there other people out there?"

At the same time Tony wondered, "Attacked? By what?"

"It was a beast of some sort … an animal," Jane said. "And yes … there are others."

Selkie pulled herself out of her stupor. Lifting her head from Jane's lap, "It was Finvarra. He's free … and it's all my fault. I made all of the wrong choices … I am such an idiot. I hate fate."

"Shh … quiet yourself. It isn't your fault." Jane brushed Selkie's hair with her fingers. "Elizabeth painted the symbols; Rufus changed the ceremony. He opened the gateway. That must be what happened."

"Dammit, is there anybody else out there?" Guerard asked. "Could they be injured? Where can we find them?" He pulled out his radio.

"No," Selkie shouted, "you can't go out there." The scream caught everybody's attention. The fear in her voice sent an anxious tremor down Tony's back. He heard the name that Guerard missed. Rufus ... the mayor was out there. Selkie continued her plea, "I beg of you. Not until after sunrise." She settled back into Jane's lap. That was all she was going to say. Jane continued to try and quell her hysteria.

Guerard badgered and begged and pleaded for an hour. Tony provided a little help when he could while Wilbur the ranger provided hot coffee and tea. Their shivering tapered off, but none of the entreaties were successful. Remaining quiet, the two women weren't any help. Selkie continued to whimper while Jane comforted her. Guerard ordered an officer to search the area around the cabin for other wounded. The two 'prisoners' seemed content as long as the officers remained on the south side of the river and lake.

The pink-orange glow glistened over the distant city skyline to the east; daylight beckoned. Selkie finally relaxed and Jane showed the police the location of the grove on the map. "I know where that is," Ranger Butz said. "It's way up north; almost out of the park … in the foothills."

"Can we get there by car?"

"Sure," Butz nodded. "A dirt road runs right past the area. I can drive you up there in my Jeep."

"How many others were up there?" Guerard asked.

"Four," Jane said.

"If any of them were still alive a few hours ago …" Guerard left the threat hanging.

"They weren't," Jane said. She sat there on her chair, staring off into the distance while continuing to caress Selkie's hair.

Guerard turned to Tony on their way out the door. "Why don't you get a hold of your forensics staff? Have them meet us there." In turn, Guerard radioed the deputy medical examiner for the southeast region of the state.

They proceeded to the grove without the girls, as neither Jane nor Selkie wanted to revisit the site. Guerard left one of the state patrol officers with them to ensure they didn't take off. The others drove out to the cedar altar. Tony and Detective Guerard rode along with Ranger Butz in the lead car. No experience could have prepared Tony for the carnage. _This must be what war is like_.

Blood was splattered everywhere – everything from the bodies to the grass to the hyssop stalks. They all wore white robes. Two bodies, remarkably intact for the destruction, lay across the weeds in the clearing. Tony identified those for Guerard as Oscar and Deanne Posey. Oscar was a member of the town council and his wife was a librarian at one of the local elementary schools. They located Elizabeth Barleysmith draped over a field of hyssop stalks and Rufus lying across the uneven, weather-worn cedar stump. The decaying, copper odor of blood pervaded the clearing.

Patrolman Myers of the State Police went down on his knee. At first Tony thought it was a religious observance. Witnessing his deep breath and pale complexion – it was a struggle to remain conscious. Tony realized his heart was racing a little himself. From a distant trance he blessed himself. _In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen._ He needed protection … and the prayer felt right.

"The mayor?" Guerard asked indicating to the body on the stump.

"The mayor-elect" Tony corrected trying to catch his breath. He stroked his chin to help gather his thoughts. The ramifications of the scene still hadn't completely settled in. "You just met him the other day. I can't wait until the press gets wind of this story. I can see the headlines now … 'Mayor killed in satanic ceremony.' We need to rope off this area as far out as possible." Tony returned to the trunk of a patrol car to gather crime scene tape and start roping off the area. It was his specialty.

The morning sun burned off the frozen dew by the time Dr. Martin Lowery, the state medical examiner arrived. Dr. Kylie Farr and Jonesy for the Pueblo station arrived shortly thereafter to help process the scene. Jonesy appeared more excited than the solemn uniformed officers. "This is fuckin' awesome!"

"Show some respect for the dead, Jonesy," Dr. Farr said soberly. She turned to Detective Guerard, "We don't let him out much."

Lowery welcomed the two members of the Pueblo staff to the spectacle. After a few moments, he casually observed, "Kylie, I hope you are ready for Christmas. You might not have much opportunity in the next few days to take care of things."

_Christmas, shit!_ Thought Tony, _it's only a few days away – I'm not ready at all_.

"All my shopping is done," Dr. Farr answered, "but I still have some baking to do. I guess my kids may have to go without cookies."

"Hey isn't this where they found that little boy all those years ago?" Jonesy asked.

"Yes," Ranger Butz said descending into official tourguide-speak. "He was found standing in the middle of the cedar table when the Union cavalry arrived. He was the only survivor."

"Not anymore," Jonesy said chuckling at the irony. "I heard on the radio that he died in his sleep last night."

"Go figure," Guerard added "I guess that crazy shaman is loose now." Tony stared off into the Greenhorn Mountains wondering about the tale. Guerard motioned to the ranger. "Tell me about this place. Like how did this stump ever get here? I've never seen an eight foot cedar tree before."

"Nobody really knows," Ranger Butz said. "We know what happened to it. The Jicarilla watched helplessly while Christian missionaries felled it, and then, burned it. The entire exercise required several days. They claimed it wasn't right for the natives to worship a tree."

Guerard waved to Tony, asking him to walk him around the perimeter of the scene. Tony gave him the lowdown on the four victims. "What do you think happened?" Guerard asked him.

"I've never seen anything like it. It looks like it was some sort of wild animal attack, but they were all bitten in the neck ... and their necks look broken. It's hard to imagine an animal being that surgical." Tony glanced over toward the stoic Ranger Butz and whispered to Guerard, "You don't think this was a part of the religious ceremony; do you?" He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Between you and me, I don't buy the crazy shaman theory."

Guerard laughed. "Neither do I. Do you think we'll get any more information out of the Mosi's?"

"I doubt it. Lord only knows what they really saw. I suspect their religious observance was tinged with hallucinogenic assistance. I always figured Jane for a drug abuser – even back in school."

During the time they wandered around the area, the state medical examiner, surveyed the area and barked out instructions to Farr and Jonesy. They photographed the area and pulled blood samples from the cedar stump, grass and other plants. Guerard impatiently waited while Lowery took a liver temperature from Oscar Posey. "Do you have a time of death?" Guerard asked after an agonizing few minutes.

"It looks like 6-7 hours ago." Tony looked at his watch. It was only seven thirty in the morning ... it felt like much later. He had been up all night. At least the Mosi's were off the hook for anybody dying while they waited in the cabin. That didn't mean they weren't complicit in the deaths.

"Let's return to the ranger's office and talk to those girls," Guerard said. "Maybe they'll be more helpful now."

The crew worked into the afternoon collecting samples. Before long, reporters and photographers collected just outside the barrier. Tony fears were realized – it was going to be a press field day.

**Owen**

Almost falling asleep on the rooftop, Owen waited for Abby's return. For what felt like ages, but was probably closer to a few hours, Owen resisted the empathetic descent into Abby's hostility. He sensed her returning to the mill from the northern direction. Instead of landing on the roof, she slipped into the eaves. Her thoughts were a jumble of fury and uncertainty.

He scampered down the ladder into the mill. He found her kneeling alone in the middle of the empty mill. She grasped the unfolded encyclopedia page with the lithograph of her father. Blood from her fingers dirtied the drawing as she touched the image. She was weeping. "I owe him everything, don't I?"

"Your father?" Owen wondered. "I'm sure you owe him a lot."

"No … my uncle."

Owen had no idea where this introspection was coming from. He felt her determination to try to make some sense out of her life. "You sound like you're trying to convince yourself. Why do you think you owe him anything?"

"He gave me his most precious gift," she answered. "He gave me eternal life … immortality."

Spending all of these years with Abby did not convince Owen that this was such a precious gift. "What did it cost him?" Owen asked.

Abby shrugged. "Not much, I guess."

Owen sat on the floor next to her. Pulling her close, he held her tight – trying to give her some sense of acceptance. Slowly, steadily, the fiendish imperfections faded away and Abby collapsed once again in Owen's lap. She was searching for something … an answer Owen was ill-prepared to provide. Owen said, "If it didn't cost him anything, then it can't be such a precious gift. If you ask me, he took more than he gave."

"What do you think it is like?" Abby asked. She noticed Owen's bewildered expression. "Dying … what do you think death is like?"

"I don't know," Owen said. "I can't even pretend to know the answer to that. It could be paradise or it could be a vast nothing."

"I killed someone tonight," she whispered. Her voice retained her husky, throaty growl. "Are you angry with me?"

Her face and arms were covered in blood – it was a dead giveaway. _Was that it? Was she upset at causing so much death?_ "No, I'm not angry," he said. "It was my fault. The way you took off, I thought it might be the blood I gave you."

As he gathered the soap and heated the water, she rebuked him, "Why are you still here? You need to leave."

"I told you I wasn't going anywhere," Owen said. He removed her bloody clothing. "Did anybody see you?"

"I don't think so. I was pretty far out of town," she said staring off into the distance, like she could see through the walls. "There were others around," she focused on the faded blood sketches. "I don't think they got a good look at me."

Later, as he combed out her hair, he was reminded of Blaise. Owen hadn't thought of him in awhile. He wondered what they were up to … p_robably helping some poor lost soul in town. _It reminded him of how little help he provided Abby.

"Owen, there is no cure."

She was right. After several centuries on this earth, she would know better than he. For some reason, he couldn't let it go. He had to believe there was some way to free her.

She continued almost in a distant trance. "Someday, I may have the courage."

"The courage for what?"

"To walk out into the sunlight. Every time I think about it, something stops me. There is one more experience I want to have; one more day I want to live … and the urge disappears."

"I'm glad you haven't walked into the sunlight. What would I do without you? I'd be lost."

She reached her hand and caressed Owen's bearded face, "Merci," she said. "Vous devez partir maintenant. Allez, " she continued as she faded into a stupefied trance.

"I still don't know what that means," Owen said. "Try to sleep."

Abby crawled into her sleeping bin and pulled the red, wool blanket over her head. _I guess I'm sleeping alone tonight_. It served him right for trying the vial of blood for Abby. After cleaning up the mill and tossing Abby's soiled clothes in the smokestack, Owen crawled onto his mattress to sleep the day away. _What the hell he was going to do about Abby_?


	24. Chapter 24

Note: Chapters 23 & 24 were once Chapter 14

Chapter 24

Forensic Futility

December 23, 1988

**Martin Lowery, M.D., M.E., ., Ph.D., ASCP, AP/CP, ., Board Certified**

In all his over thirty years as a state medical examiner Martin Lowery thought he had seen it all. He examined the results of dismemberments, maulings, and bodies left for years exposed the elements. He even participated on panels discussing the characteristics of unusual murder victims. And yet, he had never seen anything like these four bodies, all with similar neck wounds. With the exception of Barleysmith's self-inflicted hand wound, they showed few other serious injuries.

He turned off the tape player recording their observations. "Are you certain it isn't an attack by rabid animal?" he asked the local medical examiner. "What if it were an entire pack of wolves – all with rabies?"

Like Lowery, Kylie Farr was decked out in scrubs, booties, rubber gloves, face mask, and Tyvek disposable apron. She answered him with a little more disdain than she did when he asked her the same question over an hour earlier. "Seriously, Marty? Most victims of rabies attacks escape with superficial injuries – let alone four at once. A pack would have concentrated on the same victim. And no scratches or bites anywhere other than the neck? It is too impossible to consider."

"You're right, of course. It's been a long day." Lowery had spent the entire day, dissecting and examining bodies. All four open bodies were laid out on separate stainless steel draining tables. He almost completed studying his second body. "I've never heard of a pack rabies attack." The left lung weighed 1.02 kilograms with a little scaring … perfectly normal for someone with a history of low-level smoking. "What about mass suicide? It is a religious ceremony."

"Perhaps," Dr. Farr just shrugged, "but I'm at a loss to figure out how it was accomplished. Maybe we'll get some information about the stomach contents or blood samples. It's about time we've heard something." She paused studying the four bodies on the examination tables. "I'm having a difficult time remaining objective. It's well after midnight ... we've been working all day."

She held her magnifying glass to an open incision on the neck of Elizabeth's body. "I am seeing something unusual at the distal, posterior section of the spinal column." She circled over to Deanne's body and checked that. "She has one too. I must be exhausted. I missed it the first examination."

Curious, Lowery walked over to Dr. Farr's examination table, "Let me take a look." Farr inserted two forceps between the second and third cervical vertebrae. Lowery leaned in to take a look. The color difference between the mass and the spine was slight – difficult to distinguish. "I think I see it. It's gray compared to the whiter tissue of the spinal column. A small mass has attached itself to the spine, but it seems to have been destroyed by the cervical fracture." He returned to the Rufus' body on his table. "There is something on this one, also. The color difference is so minor that I missed it, as well. Good catch Dr. Farr." She smiled at the compliment.

Jonesy burst into the examination room far too excited for someone surrounded by death. "You guys are not going to believe what I found! This is going to get written up in Forensics Quarterly, for sure. We are all going to be so fuckin' famous!"

Lowery rubbed his sweaty, itchy forehead with the back of his wrist. "What did you find?" he asked with a sigh … ready to believe anything at this point.

"We could probably take a break," Dr. Farr said. They spent the time to disrobe from their surgical wear, all the time Jonesy egged them to hurry. Within a few minutes they tossed the throwaway garments in the medical waste bin and followed Jonesy down the quiet hall, past the short term jail cells with the sleeping detainee inside, and into the Forensics Laboratory arrayed with Jonesy's equipment. Lowery was struck by how lonely and quiet the basement of the police station was in the middle of the night.

The first thing Lowery noticed in the forensics lab was a 400 ml beaker containing a dark red liquid which he presumed was wine. "You're not drinking, are you Jonesy?"

"Not too much. That's part of the demonstration." He took a sip from the Pyrex glassware. Dr. Lowery noticed that the wine bottle was half empty. "My aunt gave it to me for Christmas. It's pretty good. Here have a glass yourself."

He poured some into beakers for each of them. Dr. Farr was a little more game. "Cheers," she said clinking the beaker with Lowery's before taking a sip.

"These are clean, aren't they Jonesy?"

"Sure, sure." He took another sip from his own beaker and removed a small test tube out of the centrifuge. Inside the liquid was separated into a thick, white milky substance on the top and a dark red fluid on the bottom. "This is some of the little bit of blood sample you gave me."

"You should be wearing gloves when you handle that," Lowery observed.

"I know, I know." He returned the test tube to the centrifuge and grabbed a couple of latex gloves from a cardboard box. "We only have extra large gloves in stock. When I wear those, I'm all thumbs." He donned the pair of gloves, and, in an exaggerated fashion, he failed trying to grab hold of the test tube. "Fuck this," he said as he tore off the gloves and tossed them into the garbage. He was nothing, if not overly dramatic.

Jonesy dabbled a little of the cloudy, white gel on a slide and placed into under the Celestron 1500x high power microscope. He looked under the lens and focused the image. Next to the microscope sat a powerful Compaq workstation with an Intel 286 microprocessor. He turned it on and the image under the microscope came into focus. "Voila," he said.

The computer monitor displayed dozens of cells skating across the image. Each one had hundreds of cilia extending from the outer wall. "Are you suggesting this is viral?" Lowery asked. "I've never seen anything like it."

"They're slowly dying off. This afternoon, there were over two hundred cells in the image; now there is less than thirty," Jonesy said. "But this is just the beginning." Jonsey took out a finger stick, like the ones used to obtain a diabetic blood sample, and stuck his index finger. A drop of blood pooled at the tip. He placed a fragile glass capillary tube on the finger which drew the blood several inches up the tube, as though the temperature was rising in a thermometer. Increasing the magnification of the microscope, he dabbled the end of the capillary tube on the slide.

For a moment, Lowery had to squint in order to make out the image. Several large red blood cells swum around the screen. Almost immediately, one of the parasitic cells latched on to the blood cell, followed quickly by several more. The fibrous hairs on the edge of the virus dug into the blood cell, and squeezed. The annulus shape of the hemocyte became distorted, swelling in the center. The blood cell exploded, and each of the viral cells turned red.

"What just happened?" Dr. Farr asked. "It looks like the parasitic viral cell consumed the hemoglobin."

"That's the same thing I thought," Jonesy said. "The funny thing is they aren't doing anything with it. The organism doesn't consume the blood, nor does it divide."

"That is strange," Lowery mumbled. But he was thinking about the growth they found on the spinal tissue of the victims. This virus must have something to do with that.

Jonesy removed the contaminated glass slide from the microscope. It shattered when he tossed in the garbage. "Jonesy?" Lowery said with mock disdain.

"Huh?"

"That's medical waste. You can't just treat it like garbage." He glanced in the rubber trashcan and saw a number of broken slides and sample dishes. "You haven't been doing that all day, have you?"

"No." Jonesy had the grace to appear embarrassed at the response, but he compounded the error by reaching into the garbage to remove the broken slides.

"Stop," Lowery grimaced. He picked up the garbage can and emptied the entire contents into the medical waste bin. "Jonesy … this isn't college anymore. Medical waste must be treated with respect." He gave Dr. Farr a sympathetic look to communicate that he understood the reason Jonesy wasn't working in Denver anymore. _If Jonesy doesn't speed up this demonstration, then he might not be working in Pueblo anymore._

"There's more," an animated Jonesy continued. "I've been studying this all day. I have samples from all over the scene … from the grass, from the trees, from the bodies. This virus is in every one of them, except …" he paused for dramatic effect. "except for the samples that I found on the hyssop."

"What happened in those?"

Jonesy picked up a ceramic mortar and pestal. "I mashed up some of the uncontaminated hyssop samples to create hyssop juice ..."

"Hyssop juice?"

"It's just what I call it. I'm sure it will be the next great healthcare breakthrough." After changing the magnification to a lower level, he stuck a micropipette into the solution and drew out some of the liquid. He placed the drop of the "hyssop juice" onto the slide.

The virus cells scattered away from the center of the sample. "That's strange," Dr. Lowery said. "It's like they were repelled by the chemical composition of the hyssop flower. That's very interesting … good work, Jonesy. We should get back to our examinations, now."

"I am not even close to being finished, yet," Jonesy said. "Trust me. You are going to want to see this."

He prepared an entire new sample of blood with the virus cells. "I also have a sample of the sap from the cedar tree. He drew a small sample of the sap and placed it on another slide with the virus. "The viral cells slowed down … almost to a crawl," Lowery observed.

"Now watch." He placed another drop of the hyssop juice on the slide. Viral cells slowed to a stop, they were weakened by the chemicals from the hyssop – a few started dying. "That's incredible. A natural cure from products right there in the grove."

"It's not very effective on its own. I'm not sure it would work at all, if the virus hadn't been weakened by exposure to the air. I have one more surprise for you … and this will top everything. I have had a lot of time while you guys were playing with the cadavers."

Lowery started paging through Jonesy's lab notebook. Inside he listed dozens of chemicals tested – everything from iodine to phenolphthalein to hydrochloric acid. But the notebook was in terrible shape. "Jelly? You tried grape jelly?"

Jonesy shrugged with a chuckle. "I had some in the fridge … for my bagels. I tried cream cheese, too."

"What else have you tried?"

"This," Jonesy held up the beaker with the red wine. He placed another sample of the pus-like virus on a petri dish. Then he placed a dropper into the beaker of wine, drew out a milliliter of the fluid, and added it to the sample.

It was a few seconds before Lowery realized he was holding his breath. His fingernails dug sharp creases into the palms of his hands. After he regained his composure, he let out a quiet, "Holy shit," as the entire petri dish was engulfed in bright yellow flames. He glanced over at Dr. Farr who stood aghast with her mouth dangling open.

Jonesy laughed at his reaction. "Isn't that great?" he said chortling with laughter. He placed a sample of the petri dish solution under the microscope. The ciliac shell of the viral cells burned away, but it was still alive – swimming around. He added some of the cedar sap to the slide and then the hyssop juice. The weakened viral cells started dying en masse. Within minutes all of the viral cells were dead.

After a few moments of watching, Lowery finally found his voice. "I apologize for anything bad I ever said to you. Forgive my colloquial language, but you are right – we are going to be so fuckin' famous. I think that is the best way to describe it. Take some time to clean up your notes … for posterity. We might see them in a museum some day. We should plan on contacting the CDC later this morning – after we collate our findings." Dr. Lowery could finally start working on that acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize in physiology and medicine.

A few minutes later Drs. Farr and Lowery were back in their examination area. "So what's your theory?" she asked him.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked with an air of superiority. "The mass on the spine sends out the virus to scavenge the hemoglobin. The parasite obtains its nourishment from the blood and then exudes a gas of some sort – like methane – as waste. Finally, perhaps after it consumes the blood supply, it pressurizes the neck to a level it can no longer tolerate and explodes – breaking the neck and severing the jugular. This provides the parasite with a pathway to infect another body. It's a brilliant freak of nature."

Dr. Farr didn't look completely convinced. "But in Pueblo? Why here? None of these victims have traveled overseas recently."

"It could be any of a number of reasons. Perhaps it is a natural parasite that mutated … or maybe …" He tapped his scalpel against the side of the stainless steel examination table causing a musical 'ting' sound, "These guys are hippies to the core … maybe it was contained in some exotic material they ate … or smoked. I'm sure it is something that simple. In the mean time, we need to get a lot of photographs and I need to begin working on the report to the CDC." _Geneva, here I come._

They took pictures and examined the tissue in a new light for the remainder of the night. They worked until the morning light began to show in the few windows surrounding the top of the basement examination room. Dr. Lowery was editing his report when he heard the prisoner yelling from the hallway. "Hey, something's on fire out here!"

Dr. Lowery sighed. It was probably just Jonesy conducting more experiments. "I hope that means he has completed rewriting his notebook. I'll go check on him." Time to check on his progress, anyway. With luck, Jonesy spent most of his time transcribing his notes rather than conducting experiments on other materials he found.

Dr. Lowery strolled past the resident floormate locked in his cell and into the forensics lab. He sniffed. The acrid smell of sulphur irritated his nostrils. He was surprised to find the room in complete disarray. Equipment was scattered in pieces around the lab and papers were flying everywhere. An expensive mass spectrophotometer was shattered on the lab floor. _There goes the department budget._ Jonesy cowered under a slate-topped lab desk with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees and his eyes facing down. "Are you all right, Jonesy? What happened here?"

Jonesy let out a pained moan. It almost sounded like it originated from his abdomen; underneath the smoke, the room smelled like a decaying corpse. Jonesy answered the question with a slow rumble that sounded nothing like his normal, high-pitched squeak. "I'm not feeling so good." He held his left hand out – the back of it was charred gray. Whirls of smoke rose from it. "I burned myself. By the window – after the sun came up."

Dr. Lowery sighed. _The pressure must be getting to Jonesy_. "It's been a very long and stressful night for all of us. Why don't you go home and get some sleep?" Lowery walked over to Jonesy to help him up. "I'll contact the CDC and let them know what we found." _In fact that would be preferable. Jonesy may ruin that conversation, and encourage some CDC doctors to swoop in and take credit. _"Don't worry; I'll make sure your name gets mentioned."

He was surprised at Jonesy's pallor when he reached for his hand. Up close he looked very ill. His eyes were bright blue and boils formed on his skin. To Lowery's surprise, Jonesy lifted off the ground far too easy. Lowery let out a little chuckle, "It's almost like you flew into my arms. I didn't realize how light you were."

As the maniacal Jonesy bit into Dr. Lowery's neck, he had a moment to consider one last regret. _Damn!_ _They don't award Nobel prizes posthumously_.

**Tony Sacco**

Nancy Cutshaw nudged Tony awake from his morning catnap. "Would you like a doughnut?" she asked.

Tony wiled away the nighttime hours working at his desk. After spending all day at the park, and working on paperwork, he decided to catch a few hours of shuteye at his desk. His neck was stiff from the awkward sleeping angle. When Nancy woke him up, a few hours later, he had to wipe some embarrassing drool off his chin. "Thanks," he said. "What's the occasion?"

I was picking up breakfast for Victor," she said. They had to make special arrangements for his long term incarceration. "I thought I'd get some extra for those of you who stayed here all night."

"That's very nice of you. Thanks, I appreciate it – I really do." Her shy smile said it all. Sixty-five years old, Nancy was unaccustomed to apologies. The doughnut was all the atonement he was going to get, but it was worth it. It was like one of those Christmas miracles – with cream filling.

Tony wiped the sleep from his eyes and decided to give his wife a call. The last thing he had said to her was that he would be back within a few hours – that was over a day ago. The wife of a police officer, she seemed to understand. He found Guerard catching a few winks on the floor in the conference room. After a doughnut, they could speak with the pathology team to see if they had discovered anything.

Tony knocked on the door to the conference room when he heard a piercing scream for the stairwell. He followed the scream down to the basement where he found Nancy with spilled breakfast at her feet. He noticed steam rising from the cloudy brown puddle of coffee on the floor – it seemed like an important detail. Maybe she received a burn. "Are you all right?" he asked her.

She just shook her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She pointed through the bars blocking them from the lower level. Then he noticed Dr. Farr's dismembered body on the floor in the hallway beyond the barrier. He pulled on the bars. "Let me in!" he yelled to the guard who seemed like he was just stirring from sleep himself.

The guard pushed on several buttons before finding the correct one. The buzz sounded the door open. With his sidepiece drawn Tony burst through and entered the lower level to see somebody in a lab coat disappearing out the basement side door. The fire alarm was activated by the push bar.

"What was it?" Tony asked Nancy.

"Some animal or something," she stuttered. Her expression radiated abject terror.

_An animal in a lab coat?_ Tony ran down the hallway, past the morgue to the exit. Opening the door he saw two police cars engulfed in flame. In between them was a body. He grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall, just inside the door, and started spraying. Within a few minutes the smoldering remains of the fire bellowed a cloud of gray smoke, but it was out.

He turned back to the basement where he found Guerard holding the door open. "What happened?" Tony asked. Someone had silenced the fire alarm.

"Come take a look," Guerard answered.

Kylie Farr was sprawled in the hallway. Her head and an arm were scattered several feet away. This was not a surgical slaying, like at the lake, but it was just as effective. Someone was going to have to tell her family that she won't make it for Christmas; and she had two young children at home.

The morgue was a disaster. Bodies and evidence were scattered everywhere like there had been a struggle. Smashed computers and the four corpses lay strewn about the room. Guerard approached him at the door to the morgue. "The forensics lab looks about the same. I found Lowery in there. He looks worse than Farr."

They took a few minutes to review the security tapes for the basement level, but the static of the images made for poor viewing quality. They witnessed the attack of Dr. Farr, but most of it took place off screen. Tony jumped when an arm flew past the image on the monitor.

"Damn, it's been a long night," Tony said. He wiped his brow. These pieces did not fit together. "Any sign of Jonesy?"

"Nope," Guerard answered. "You don't think some wild animal was tucked inside one of those body bags, do you?"

"I don't think an animal would take the time to don a lab coat." Tony answered. "Let's go talk to Victor – maybe he saw something."

They had the guard buzz them into Victor's cell. Victor was whimpering in the little bathroom area of the cell. "What is it, Victor? What's going on?"

"You guys are conducting crazy experiments down here," was all he said.

"Do you want to come upstairs?" Tony asked him. "Get out for a little while. Come on – let's go get some breakfast."

"No, just lock the door. Keep it locked."

Tony left Victor locked in the cell. Kylie Farr's remains were still in the hallway. He resisted the sudden urge to kneel, bless himself and say a prayer. Instead he whispered the Lord's Prayer. When he arrived at the final line of "Deliver us from evil" he thought it might work. Guerard stood by and watched his short prayer. When he stood back up, he asked him, "What do you think?"

"Do you have an incinerator?" Guerard asked.

Tony nodded.

"Then, burn it," Guerard said. "Burn it all."

Tony wanted to agree. "What don't you get hold of the state medical examiner and ask some people to canvass our labs?" Something was terribly wrong in Pueblo and he struggled with the religious implications of it. "I'm beginning to reconsider the crazy shaman theory." He spent the rest of the day supervising the isolation of the lab and equipment. Then he was going to take a few days off to spend with his family. He needed a break. Following Christmas they can ask more questions of the Mosi's. But that can wait. It's not like they have any evidence.

December 24, 1988

**Owen**

Both Owen and Abby slept for the majority of the past two days. Owen sat up in his mattress pulling the blankets around him. The fire was burning low and needed more timber. His stack of pallets was dwindling, but he should have no trouble making it through the winter.

A few minutes after Owen, Abby sat up in her bin. She looked and smelled good. A lilac scent wafted over toward Owen. "Hey," she said with a welcoming smile.

"Hey," he answered. "Are you feeling a little better today? You seemed pretty out of it."

Looking toward the west she nodded. Owen could barely make out the whisper when she said, "He's sleeping again."

_What is she talking about?_ "You know what today is?" Owen asked with a grin. She shook her head. "It's Christmas eve. I thought we could go up on the roof and watch for Santa's sleigh."

She furrowed her brow, baffled at his excitement. She thought he was a little crazy. Owen continued, "I know it is just a story. But it's all fun. At least we can stare at the stars and pretend."

The climbed up the ladder to the roof. He carried a bag of presents with him. The full moon shined low in the horizon, illuminating the entire sky and blotting out many of the stars. Brisk air carried with it a refreshing chill. The sounds of harried shoppers rose from the city sidewalks. But the roof of the mill was the simplicity of stillness. Carolers sang in the distance. _O Holy Night_.

"I got you some presents," Owen said.

"Awww, I didn't get you anything." Abby complained with a grin.

"It's okay. I don't really expect you to fit in with the modern shopping experience." He withdrew a tiny potted cactus. "This is called a moon flower. It is supposed to bloom under a full moon … like tonight." He pulled it out and set it on the shallow sloping roof of the mill. "I don't know how it will do in the cold."

To their amazement and wonder, the bud started opening. Owen positioned it to point toward the moon and the ivory and lilac colored flowers blossomed completely. "That's beautiful," Abby said. "I love it!"

Owen decided to wait on his second gift. Abby seemed to be enjoying this one. "We'll just have to leave the flower up here and check on it every night," she said.

Owen wanted to broach the subject of what happened a few nights earlier. It felt like she had completely retreated to her animal nature, but _no … it's Christmas_. "I have something else for you," he said pulling up another bag.

Abby rustled through the bag and pulled out a plastic clamshell package with a Rubik's cube with four rows on each side. She looked puzzled over the gift. "How do I do it?" she asked.

"I have to get it open first," Owen pulled out his pocketknife and sliced open the clear plastic covering. He handed the Rubik's cube to her, anxious to see her excitement.

Instead she looked puzzled with disappointment. "Somebody already solved it. All the colors are aligned."

Owen laughed at her response, "You have to mix them up first." He took the cube from her and started twisting the puzzle.

"Oh, I get it thanks," Abby said.

"Do you like it?" Owen asked.

She nodded, but he was hoping for a better response – like her appreciation of the cactus moon flower. Abby shuffled over to the smokestack where she sat and stared at the mishmash of colors. She rotated the cube in her hands studying the sides with a singular focus. He thought it was adorable … for the first hour. Every so often, she would twist the puzzle, but the jumbled mishmash of colors remained. She sat there for hours while the cold descended on Owen. Finally, he grew impatient and headed down the ladder. "Make sure you come down before the sun rises." She nodded.

Once again, Abby was lost to him; and once again, it was to a prison of his own creation.

December 25, 1988

**Tony Sacco**

"Wake up! It's Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, buddy," a very sleepy Tony wished on Javier. "Can we wait one more hour to check on the presents? I'm sure they'll still be there."

"No way, Dad!" Javier pleaded. "I've already been awake for over an hour. Come on."

Aileen laughed at his eagerness. "Yeah, come on, Dad," she said a little too joyful at his misery. "It's almost six-thirty. I'll get the coffee and breakfast started."

"All right," Tony groaned. He headed downstairs accompanied by a massive headache. Nobody mentioned early Christmas mornings in the adoption brochure. "I'm coming."

By the time he reached the living room, an excited Javier was already digging into his presents – the largest one first. It was the new Nintendo NES system for the best videogame experience. Santa always knew just what he wanted. "All right," he shouted with excitement. "What games did I get?"

Aileen handed Tony a warm cup of coffee at his post in the entrance to the living room. He presided over the excitement. Javier found one present and handed it to him. It was a mug with the words "World's Greatest Dad" written on it.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"I love it. Thanks." Tony wasn't sure that he qualified for the honor, but he would take it.

Javier found the games that he was looking for. He tore the wrapping paper off of the first one "Castlevania," he said repeating the title on the game. "Is that near New Jersey?"

"I don't think so," Tony said with a little chuckle. "I think it is supposed to be in Europe somewhere."

"What is the game about?" Javier asked reading the back of the packaging.

"You have to battle the curse of Dracula, acquiring relics, and then defeat him in the end."

Javier looked thrilled at the prospect, "Is Dracula a vampire?" he asked with an excited whisper.

"Yes, he is," Aileen interjected. "I'm not so sure that seems like such a good game to be playing on Christmas."

"Aww, come on, Mom. Please!"

She relented; of course she let him play it. But first, Tony had to figure out how to hook the console to the television. That was the real challenge. Finally, he got the wires connected just right to begin the game play.

Javier began his obsessive quest to determine what this Castlevania was all about. Aileen interrupted the game play so that they could clean up. "I've invited some people over for dinner," she said.

A few hours later, Javier only had two of the necessary relics needed for the final confrontation when the guests arrived. Roberto, his wife and child came to visit for the dinner. Tony was excited to be with his friend; he even got to play with the baby for a little while. Only a month old, the tyke was growing by leaps and bounds.

Roberto took a great picture of Tony carrying the baby like he was a football in a Heisman pose. Even Lorena chuckled. She had been reticent to let Tony hold him. When they left she observed, "You were really good with the baby. It's a shame that you can't have some of your own."

"We have Javier. That will be enough. Thanks for coming. I had a lot of fun." When they left he turned to Aileen and thanked her. "I know you're just trying to the friend matchmaker, and I appreciate it." He kissed her on the forehead anticipating the possibility taking care of that rain check on the makeup action.

For now he had to help Javier conquer the castle and battle the demon. He had been working on it every spare moment of the day. "Wow! You made a lot of progress. You're like a Castlevania Rain Man."

They kept at it until almost midnight when they had the Dracula assembled and battled him to the death. Javier kept badgering Tony for questions. "Do vampires drink anything but blood? "No"; "Can they come out in the daytime?" "I don't think so." "Are they always men?" "No, I'm sure there are women vampires, too." "How do you become a vampire?" "You know this is just pretend, right? You become a vampire when another one bites you." Javier nodded at the answer, but continued to pester his stepfather, "Do vampires have to breathe?" "I don't think so, but I can't really say for sure," Tony answered.

"I would like that," Javier whispered.

At the end of the night, they defeated the evil vampire. Aileen had long been asleep and Tony yawned wishing he was asleep with her. "What did you think about that game?" he asked Javier.

"It was fun, but I don't think the vampire looked right. It should look more like a little girl."

"I guess to a little boy that would be the most terrifying monster. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Maybe you can try some of the other games tomorrow. Bedtime now."

Javier, went up to bedtime more convinced than ever that he has some idea about Abby. A vampire … _that's why she changed, when the snake bit me_ … _and she doesn't need to breathe_.

**December 27, 1988**

**Tony**

"Jane, we could really use your help on this investigation. More people have been killed." Standing in the Mosi family room, Tony took a furtive glance the mug Jane handed him. Tony gingerly took a sip of the witch's brew. It wasn't bad – normal coffee with something fruity, maybe raspberry or cherry. The important ingredient of caffeine was present in extra large doses. "It's good," Tony said giving Guerard the green light. Then back to Jane. "Would you please revisit the night of the attack and describe what you saw?"

An armchair groaned under the footballer's heavy load. The small, dusty room felt like an uncomfortable step back in time. Low wattage lights with dark lampshades and wilting furniture reminded him of his grandparents' old house. It was hard to imagine that the shiny edges of the worn, green velour were ever new. Tony resisted the discomforting urge to place his feet on the cocktail table to the disapproving glares of his guarded grandparents. _Weren't they ever children?_

"It was dark. I couldn't really see anything," Jane replied. Her haunted look betrayed her ignorance. She knew more than she was letting on – some agonizing memory trapped within her withered spirit. _This is not the same person I told of her father's death just a few days ago._

"You can't be serious," Guerard said, more belligerently than Tony. "The moon was almost full, the skies were clear, and you were burning a fire. You had to have seen something."

She sipped her coffee and closed her eyes reconsidering the night. She tried to keep herself composed and Guerard inadvertently provided an excuse. "Fire blindness," Jane said. "I looked directly into the fire just before it happened."

"Before what happened?" Guerard asked with exasperation.

"What about noises? Did you hear any sounds?" Tony asked with more patience.

"Some screeching and snarling," Jane said.

"So, it was an animal of some sort?"

Jane shrugged, "I don't know. Maybe." She averted her eyes toward her former school friend; avoiding the unfriendly Guerard. Then she her eyes lit up from the memory of another detail. "I heard a loud flutter of wings just prior to the attack."

"Wings? What the f…?" Guerard said. "Do you mean that it was some sort of bird … some flying monster? Or did the wings come from some other source altogether?"

Jane shrugged again. Her lack of confidence was of little help. Irritated on the evasive answers Guerard increased his aggressiveness. "You know what I think?" He paused giving her a chance to fill in the answer, but she just blankly stared at him. "I think you were disappointed with the way Rufus was running things. What was your statement the other day?" Guerard flipped open his notepad. "'Elizabeth painted the symbols; Rufus changed the ceremony.' You wanted to replace him as leader of the coven."

Jane laughed at the allegation. "You're an idiot," she said. "What coven? We're not witches – not that there is anything wrong with that." She toned down the rest of her response, perhaps in consideration of the victims. "It doesn't matter. Everyone is gone. There is nothing to lead."

Tony thought the reality was more grounded. "What about Rufus's will? With his death and the death of his wife, you and Selkie were the beneficiaries of his entire estate."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Jane answered. "I had no idea Rufus was going to do that. I only just found out myself."

Guerard rubbed his brow. "Dammit, you know more than you are letting on. Tell us what happened that night!"

"Lay off, Guerard," Tony interjected.

"They're the only suspects we have."

"Am I a suspect?" Jane asked in quiet voice as though she were resigned to this possibility.

Tony answered, "No." He glared at Guerard.

"Of course they are. They have motive and opportunity."

Tony knew they shouldn't be arguing in front of a witness, but he couldn't help but think that Guerard was way off. "Rufus was the mayor-elect. Many people had a motive for killing him. Jane and Selkie may have had opportunity, but what about means? How do you remove the blood from four victims and then swim across the lake in the middle of December? They were running from something. And I know what I saw in the basement of the police station."

"What did you see?" Jane asked with a breathy gasp.

Tony chuckled nervously at her excitement. "Okay, you called my bluff …. I don't know what I saw. But it wasn't human. And it makes the explanation of the animal attack all the more likely."

Guerard said, "What about your sister … can we speak with her now? Maybe she saw something you missed."

"You can try. I'm not sure if that would be helpful. She hasn't said much since we've returned."

Jane led them down the hall to the open door to Selkie's bedroom. Tony was disoriented by the expansive chaos. Still wearing the same clothes from a week earlier, she sat on the floor against the wall with her knees raised. She cradled a drawing pad on her lap with a variety of colored oil pens and charcoal pencils strewn about on the floor. Drawings of demons, flying horses, and forest landscapes were scattered around the room.

Tony picked up one large drawing of a giant tree. Drawn inside the bark were the features of a face; horns, like those on a water buffalo, grew out beneath the branches. When he studied the drawing closely, the grainy lines of bark looked like tiny bodies lined head to toe. He found the drawing so disturbing that he put it down and picked up a portrait from the pile. "Who's this?" he asked.

Jane answered the question, "It's nobody … just some homeless boy she met."

Guerard entered the room and picked up a few of the drawings, leafing through them. "Which one of these pictures looks like the animal that attacked your party the other night?"

Selkie glanced up from her drawing with fear in her eyes, but Jane answered the question. "None of them," she said. "But I told you, I didn't get a very good look at it."

Tony walked around Selkie's bed and addressed her directly, "I remember you when you were just a little toddler," he said with a grin raising his hand to indicate a child's height. She was drawing a twisted, misshapen evergreen tree. Its trunk was cracked and bleeding. He crouched down so that his eyes were almost at her level. "What did you see, Selkie? What did you see that night?"

For a moment, it looked like Selkie would answer him. She focused on his eyes and her lips started to move. She mouthed a breath of something … less than a whisper. Without making another sound she turned back to the sketch and colored in some unusual, scaly birds in the branches.

Tony glanced back at Jane when the sound escaped Selkie's lips. "What was that?" he asked.

"I saw a river of futility and anguish," Selkie confided a little louder, "I embraced the angel of death." It was as though she were worried the walls themselves were listening. Then she retreated back into her creative, artistic escape. That was all she was going to add.

"We found your bike near the cedar table and your camping gear, too. Would you like us to get that for you?" Tony prodded further, but her eyes remained distant.

When she didn't answer, Tony returned with detective Guerard and Jane to the dingy confines of the hallway outside Selkie's room. He held his uniform hat in his hands and asked her in a tentative way. "I know we haven't kept in touch, but do you have anybody who can help you? Any friends or anything?"

"We don't have any friends, and we don't need anybody," Jane answered. "Selkie and I … we have each other."

"It doesn't have to be that way. I'm sure if you contact Aileen, she'll do what she can… whatever you need," Tony said.

Tony was surprised when Guerard restarted the aggressive interrogation. "Start from the beginning," Guerard said. "Why don't you describe to me exactly what you saw."

"I already did this the other day. I thought that would be enough."

"There never is enough. Please, from your arrival at the site."

"That's enough, Guerard," Tony interrupted, "I agree with Jane. We heard the story, and we have a funeral to attend. Dr. Farr is being interred this afternoon. We need to be there." Guerard started to argue, but Tony stopped him. "I know … you're the detective, but it's time to give these women a break." He turned to Jane, "Please if you need any help … anything at all ... give Aileen a call. I'll let her know to expect to hear from you."

She mouthed him a quiet. "Thank you." On that note, Tony grabbed their coats from the hooks at the top of the stairs and handed Guerard his. He should get an overcoat and maybe a hat. That would look cooler than the police uniform.

**Jane Mosi**

Jane remembered Tony as being standoffish with his own flair for football-star arrogance, but time has mellowed him. Under other circumstances, the nostalgic memories may have been pleasant. She tried to keep her cool during the questioning, but she almost lost her composure when they asked to see Selkie.

She rinsed the coffee mugs in the sink and placed them in the dishwasher. The she returned to Selkie's bedroom to ensure she was okay. Selkie sketched with charcoal pencils using broad sweeps over the face of her drawing pad; putting her final touches on another drawing of a cedar tree.

Jane knelt next to her sister and tried to straighten her oily, mussed up hair. She wished she could have presented a better image for the police, but this worked out well. Selkie flicked her arm angrily at Jane when she accidentally blocked her view of the sketchpad. "Don't worry," Jane said. "Everything will be okay"

"You were wrong," Selkie said without taking her eyes away from the sketch pad.

"What do you mean?" Jane asked. "It will be okay. I promise."

"What you told that police officer. You were wrong," Selkie said. She set down the drawing and picked up a different portrait shading in added highlights … Owen's features were rapidly taking shape. "I have a friend." She tore the page off of the sketch pad and held it in front of her. "He'll help me."


	25. Chapter 25

Note: Chapters 25, 26, & 27 were once Chapter 15

Chapter 25

Searching

**January, 1989**

**Owen**

Every year at this time Owen's mother would point to the brightest star in the sky and claim it guided the Magi to Bethlehem - always leading him home during the Christmas season. Tonight Owen sat alone atop the steel mill roof and wished he could figure out a way back. But he wasn't a child anymore. That was just a story, and these were just stars in the sky.

Slithering above the horizon in the clear southern sky, the sea serpent threatened the beautiful Andromeda. It was not lost on Owen that a month ago, when Abby relayed the story of Perseus, Cetus was nowhere to be seen. Above the city on the other side of the river, Cygnus, the cross-shaped swan constellation, swooped in to protect the princess in a way that Owen knew he wasn't capable.

He leaned back on the roof and stared at the stars overhead. Breathing out with a large puff, he watched the vapor swirl toward the heavens. It didn't get very far. After a few feet, the breeze and dry desert air swallowed the mist. He took a second breath and blew harder. No matter how hard he tried, his breath could not reach the stars.

He closed his eyes allowing his thoughts to drift. Colors danced in the darkness – dots of blue, yellow, red, green, orange and white blazed in twirling patterns. Abby was gone; she was lost to him.

After a short time, the cold from the metal roof pierced through his overcoat. The self-imposed isolation was paralyzing. He forced himself to get up and move around. Finally, bored with the distraction of the evening sky, he descended down the ladder into the mill.

Abby sat in the bowl of one of the giant crucibles studying the puzzling cube. Holding onto the handrail, trying to get her attention stood Javier. In his other hand, he held a long-stemmed, sun-yellow flower.

_Who knows where he got that?_ Owen was somewhat comforted by the fact that Abby wasn't paying any more attention to Javier than to him.

Javier was startled by the noise of Owen's descent on the ladder. "Get out of here you little brat," Owen said.

Javier just shrugged, maintaining his hold on the crucible handle. In anger Owen grabbed hold of the tire iron and chased after him. "I said, 'get out of here.'" That got him moving. Javier tossed the flower into the crucible and jogged away, laughing at the sport.

After Javier left the mill, Owen replaced the sledgehammer beneath the push-bar. _Dammit, this hammer does nothing for me! _ He returned to the crucible where and climbed in next to Abby. She didn't acknowledge him at all – as though she was not aware he was even there. The curved ceramic shell was cold and uncomfortable, but Abby didn't seem to mind.

She rotated the cube in her hand, studying the colored squares. Occasionally, she gave a few twists to the blocks to rearrange the pattern. She maneuvered the cube again, studying the changes. Owen couldn't figure out what she was doing, but she was captivated. He enjoyed watching her work. When he closed his eyes, he saw the same colored patterns whirling through his thoughts.

He wandered over to his sleeping area. He added a few more timbers to the fire, crawled onto the mattress, and pulled the red wool blanket over his head. Asleep, his dreams danced to the rotating colors of the Rubik's cube.

The next morning he awoke to the smells of warm spices wafting over from the distant wall. Perplexed, Owen uncovered his head and saw Jane studying the drawings on the wall. He sat up on the mattress, pulling the blanket around him for added warmth. "What are you doing here?" Owen asked.

She didn't turn away immediately from the drawings. Abby was mercifully out of sight, tucked away in the crucible. "I'm glad to see that you have a better understanding of blood magic than Elizabeth," she said. She pointed to the swirled lines on the wall. "You'll need it. The Tree of Life – very strong protection."

Owen wasn't interested in having a discussion about the drawings on the wall. He wasn't much interested in speaking to Jane at all. "What was in that blood you gave me?"

She turned around and walked tentatively. "I brought you a peace offering." She handed out a plastic mug containing chicken soup. "I thought you might be hungry."

Owen was always hungry. Pride was an emotion long lost on Owen. He grabbed the mug and slurped some down like it was a drink. Homemade and still warm, the soup tingled with a variety of spices. "What about the vial of blood?"

Jane's confidence waned and she had the grace to look contrite. "I'm sorry," she said. "It was sheep's blood." She shook her head and averted her eyes in toward the western wall. "I didn't understand … I didn't take you seriously." Jane finally faced Owen, turning away from the drawings. "I need your help."

"What could I possibly offer you?" Owen said as he finished the soup.

"Selkie," Jane said, "she's very upset. She is adrift in a river of fear and self-doubt. I thought, maybe you could bring her back. Please, I've tried everything. She won't answer me." He consented … for Selkie and, maybe, some more soup.

The walk had been long and quiet. He had made that same journey once before with exuberance while accompanying Selkie. Today, Selkie's lively joy was replaced by Jane's quiet determination.

Once in the apartment, Owen found himself framed by the door of Selkie's disordered bedroom. Selkie was positioned with her back to the wall surrounded by a maelstrom of disturbing drawings. Just as engrossed as Abby working on her cube, Selkie drew on the sketchpad. Owen cleared a spot next to her, creating some order in the confusion, and sat down with his back to the wall. She leaned her head on Owen's shoulder and continued her sketch. Silence can be disconcerting for many, but Owen was used to it.

Without saying a word, Owen watched as Selkie created a charcoal drawing of a bird soaring in the sky. The stars twinkled under the gaze of a full moon and a sea of charred tree trunks smoked beneath it.

As the bird began to take form, he broke the silence. "That's kind of a long neck for a duck," he said.

Selkie gave a slight, shy smile at the idea. "It's not a duck; it's supposed to be a swan."

"In that case," Owen said sheepishly, "I guess, it looks about right."

"Thank you for coming to see me," Selkie said as she shaded in the feathers of the swan. "Do you draw?"

"No," Owen answered, "I've never been very good with art."

"You should try," Selkie said. She put down her charcoal and flipped the sheet over. She handed the pad to Owen.

"It's your last page. Don't waste it on me," Owen said.

Selkie ignored his protest and handed him a pencil. "Just draw an oval … very lightly with the pencil. Take up most of the sheet." Owen did as she instructed.

Like he was in grade school again, Selkie patiently guided him step by step. The outline of a face began to take shape. The eyes were about halfway down the oval. She helped him position them from side to side. "The outsides can come to a point, but create a small loop on the inside for the tear ducts." He drew the tip of the nose about halfway between the eyes and the chin. Before drawing the mouth, he practiced a few times on the cardboard back of the sketch pad. After a few attempts, he decided to show her gnarly teeth with her lips slightly open.

With the outline of the face complete, Owen returned to the eyes to add more detail. Selkie chuckled over his struggle with the irises. "You don't want her to look frightened. When you draw the irises, you can sometime see the bottom, but never the top … it is covered by the eyelid," she instructed. "Here … look at my eyes to see how they appear."

They say that eyes are the window to the soul. Magnified by her tortoise shell-framed eyeglasses, Owen could see clear into Selkie's deep brown eyes. They were afflicted with sorrow and pain which wasn't present a few weeks ago. "I think I see," Owen said. Selkie helped walk him though the shading of the eyes.

Owen was sure that Selkie could complete a sketch like this in no time. Even though he was taking hours, complete with erasures, Selkie continued to guide him patiently through the drawing. She had to show him how to hold the pencils and which ones to use for lighter and darker shades. When they grew dull, she rubbed them on a piece of fine grit sandpaper, cleaning the sharpened tips in a block of Styrofoam. Owen sneezed from the whiff of wood and pencil dust, but she badgered him to continue. His fingers grew stiff from the effort. He had to flex them several times to relieve the pain. "This is a lot of work."

"You are gripping the pencils too tightly. Relax," Selkie said.

By the time he was complete, gray from nearby buildings shadowed through the bedroom. Owen stared at his work. It wasn't very good, but even with his mistakes and erasures and poor proportions, her deep sadness came through. Her sunken tired eyes radiated a hint of despair. He felt despondent for even knowing her … for his role in her sadness. But the proportions were all off. She barely even looked human. "It's terrible," Owen said.

"I think she's beautiful," Selkie said.

And with one word, Abby was. Owen could not fathom how one simple word from Selkie would completely change his perception of the poorly drawn portrait. The picture transformed as he looked at it with this new perspective. Her lips seemed to turn upward in a slight smile, and a twinkle sparkled in her eyes. Beneath the sadness shined a glimmering light of hope. _I won't give up, Abby._

Selkie leaned her head into Owen's chest, and he placed his arm around her shoulder. "Thank you," he said. "I never drew anything like that before." Her oily, unwashed hair tickled his nose and he wanted to sneeze. "You smell kind of funny," he said. The phrase stoked a long forgotten memory.

"That hurts quite a bit coming from you." Selkie gave an embarrassed laugh. "I haven't showered for a while," she said. Then she became more solemn and withdrawn. The sadness that Owen saw in Abby's picture seemed to have affected Selkie. Her breath grew shallow. She licked her lips and hesitated before she whispered, "Owen, I'm a terrible thing. Please don't judge me."

"I'm the last person who would judge you," Owen said. "I've done my share of terrible things." He paused, waiting for her to say more, but she was quiet. "What happened?" he asked.

"I made a disastrous choice. But I swear it wasn't my fault … I was led astray."

"I'm sure it will be okay," Owen said. "What did you do?"

Selkie hesitated again before answering. She seemed overwrought ... an admission that fate steered her wrong, kept her off balance. Finally, she muttered, "My husband … heinous and corrupt … I let him free. And just like that, four people, who I have loved my entire life, are dead." With the last statement she choked back a sob. "I hate it … I hate fate."

Owen quietly held her tight. He experienced a lot of evil things in his short life, but he could not figure out what to make of this confession. It all sounded so crazy, but he already promised he wouldn't judge her. "So, what do you do now?" was all he could think to ask.

"I sit here and draw," she answered. "Trying to make sense of it." She pulled out a fresh new drawing pad and started sharpening her pencils. "Drawing saves me from any more poor choices."

"What about the poem. Can it undo what you started?"

"I'm so afraid of that world," Selkie said. "I'm not even sure if it is real." Tears streamed down her cheek. "I can't even tell you who gave it to me. I've never been so frightened in my entire life. I can't make another mistake like that. Everything I ever believed in is wrong. I thought the land of the faerie was supposed to be a beautiful … wonderful place, but it is filled with evil."

"It has to mean something" Owen said. "It's too weird. Do you think you might be able to figure out what it means?"

"I'll try," Selkie said. "But it could make things worse … much worse." She was drawing a light large oval on the reverse side of a piece of smooth sulfite paper and began right away with the eyes and nose. Her fingers were strong and confident of their position. "Do you think you can come back tomorrow?"

She stopped her drawing for a moment and gazed eagerly at Owen for his response. "I think I can come," Owen said. Selkie wiped away her tears and gave a slight smile and returned to her drawing.

"Over the next few days, we need to spend some time cleaning our house," she said.

**Jane Mosi**

Jane watched Selkie smile from the darkened hallway. It brought a mix of joy and sadness. She had worked for days to create that simple elation, but now she seethed with anger. She couldn't understand how Owen helped Selkie in ways that she couldn't. Her father all over again. 

_I can be patient and understanding. I've devoted myself to her. Who is this kid coming in to steal away my Selkie? _ As the anger boiled, Jane found herself forgetting that it was she who invited Owen to their place.

For the evening meal Jane prepared fresh hot turkey smothered in gravy of donkey skin glue for strength. As a side dish she cooked rice with lycium fruit and morida root. The vegetables steamed along with Jane's temper. She needed Owen to help Selkie, so she couldn't do anything rash. She will have to bide her time and, when Selkie has recovered, she would make sure to separate them from each other. There are plenty of ways to accomplish that.

She dished up the dinner for Selkie, Owen and herself. With only two seats at the table Jane planned to eat at the counter. When ready, she called "dinnertime" down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Within a few minutes, Owen and Selkie came down the hallway. Selkie was wrapped around Owen's arm for support. "It's nice of you to join us," Jane said.

"Thank you," Owen said.

"I wasn't referring to you," Jane said, irritated at his presumption. "I meant Selkie. She had been taking her meals in her room."

Owen shrugged, "I still want to thank you for the dinner."

Jane mumbled a quick, "You're welcome." Then she began to enjoy her dinner.

_Belladonna – it would take half as much for this scrawny kid. It will be easy, but not until I'm sure that Selkie is okay._

**Tony Sacco**

The short report folder made a smacking sound as it landed on his desk. "Here it is," Guerard said. "I thought you might want to read through it before I turn it in."

Tony shoved it back to Guerard. "Just tell me what it says." It didn't really matter, anyway. Regardless of the conclusions, the special assignment had ended. He enjoyed working with a detective, but without any evidence it was tough to develop any traction on the investigation.

"Tentative conclusion – wild animal attack; species unknown," Guerard said. "I think there may be some overtime in Animal Control this month."

Tony pulled the report back over and started leafing through it. He didn't expect much, but he wasn't sold on the wild animal story – not that the crazy shaman theory was any better. The state hazmat team created a swath of evidence destruction before the forensic replacements from Denver could examine the scene. They found nothing new. Any notes or computers were destroyed before the coroners could set up shop.

The bodies were gouged with ragged teeth marks which could have been human or a dog or a wolf or just about anything with teeth. An animal was the most likely explanation, but that creature crouched over Dr. Farr looked vaguely human. Spending the holidays with his family did nothing to stem the nightmares. Tony woke up in a cold sweat each night with visions of that demon. _And what the hell happened to Jonesy?_

"I'm not buying it," Tony said. Or is that just what he wanted to think so that he could remain on the special assignment? "Maybe we need to go back to Lake Pueblo and reexamine the scene."

"I know … I know," Guerard said. "But we've been back there twice already. I'm getting a little tired of Ranger Butz. That girl seems to be recovering from her ordeal … but every time we stroll around, she retreats to her happy place. She's had nothing to add and I'm getting pressure from on high to close this down. It's like they say, 'Whatever isn't impossible is implausible,' or something like that."

Tony laughed at the error. "I think you're trying to say 'when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.' "

"Yea that's what I meant. Who said that? Some brilliant guy like Socrates?"

"A brilliant philosopher named Sherlock Holmes said it many times. I thought every detective knew that. Have we really eliminated every possibility?" Tony asked.

"I think so … what else could it be?" Tony shook his head. Then Guerard changed the subject. "You know you're a smart guy. Why don't you try for detective?"

"I don't have the degree. After two years of college, I dropped out and just managed to earn an associate's degree. A few short months of police training and here I am," he opened his arms to embrace the cubicle, "for the rest of my working life."

"I'll put in a good word for you in Denver. We have an opening or two up there. And they will help you complete that degree." He picked up the report and waved, "I need to make a copy and then I'm outta here. Maybe I'll see you around … after I retire. I don't think I want to be spending too much time at Lake Pueblo."

"Not for the fish, anyway. Don't worry about the opportunity. I think the chief is more interested in it than I am. Have a good trip back."

"I'll see you. Keep Denver in mind. You're wasted here."

With Guerard's exit, Tony was alone once again. He headed to the cafeteria to have a late evening snack before going out on his first patrol in weeks. He missed the uncomfortable silence engendered by his parade to the vending machines. The New Year brought the same old prejudices. "Hi, everybody." He received a mumbled chorus of "hi's" accompanied by agitated coughs and throat clearings in return. He thought he might sit at a table to drag out the distress, but he reconsidered. With a wave he left with a soda and a Snickers bar leaving the rabble to wallow in their superiority. _They all think they are so much better than I am_.

He selected his route assignment from Nancy – the circuit out Northern Avenue, up North Pueblo, East on Tuxedo and down to Fourth Street returning to the station down Greenwood. If he weren't a police officer, the entire circuit would take a good thirty minutes; but tonight the trip through Mexicano territory would be eventful. It was perfect for his simmering temper. Tony didn't have a prayer of completing the circuit – just how he liked it.

As he drove around the city streets, the dark winter sky with its sliver crescent moon dampened his fiery disposition. The yellow city nightlights created eerie billowing shadows which swept through his patrol car. In the frigid city residential areas travelers were rare and fireplaces were overworked. It was just too damn cold for rowdy behavior. He worried this might become a boring night.

Unfortunately, he was wrong.

Rounding onto Twenty-Fourth Street from North Pueblo, he jammed on his brakes when he saw a curious bird gliding in the sky … circling … searching. Exiting his car to get a better look, he discovered his perception was off – it was further away than he thought. He had a difficult time focusing, but it had to be the size of an eagle with wings like a bat or even larger … much larger. He had never seen anything like it before. _Maybe something escaped from the zoo? _He watched it circle around the city sky then head back west. It was a fantastic sight. _I'm in the wrong department; Animal Control is going to be busy this week._

The he recalled Jane's description of the noises that frightening night in the park. _"I heard a loud flutter of wings."_ An uneasy tightness crept through his ribs. Like Javier with his asthma. When the creature receded in the horizon, Tony returned to his patrol with a renewed vigilance, but his thoughts rapidly reverted to that thing. _Could it be a vampire bat? Or a condor … maybe?_

Just past hearing the thumping of his tires over the railroad tracks, his thoughts drifted back to his police duty. It was not long before Tony finally found the opportunity to impart the violent wisdom of his frustration. Somebody raced out of the Loaf 'n Jug on seventeenth. At the same time a call came over the police band radio reporting a robbery. "Roger," Tony said into the handset, "this is Unit R12. I see him."

With sirens blaring, he pulled up onto the sidewalk to cutoff the escape path of the miscreant. _That's always fun_. He always thought he should have a clever phrase for these "gotcha" moments, but they never came to him when he most needed them. When he got out of his car he resorted to the tried and true. "What's your hurry, hombre?"

The kid dropped the bag and took a wild, flailing swing of his fist at Tony. _Brilliant! And he's Mexican_. Tony easily ducked out of the path and returned fire – first with a left upper cut to the rib cage; followed by a right haymaker to the glass chin. The kid dropped like a bucket of fresh-picked, below minimum wage produce. "Take that you fuckin' wetback! You're under arrest for theft and resisting arrest. You should have just gone back to where you came from."

Hearing the sirens the night manager of the convenience store jogged to the scene. With a rapid, barely comprehensible Mexican accent he said, "Gracias, officer. I've been having trouble with this one. I saw everything."

_Saw everything? I hope he didn't hear everything. What did I say?_

Tony pulled out a set of handcuffs and wrestled them onto the perp's wrists. "Thank you, sir. I'll get a statement from you in a minute. Let's see what was worth all of this trouble." He glanced in the bag, which was now evidence. "Little Debbie marshmallow pies? Are you serious? I guess you must really enjoy them."

He shoved the kid into the back seat of his cruiser. He noticed blood dripping from the spic's face. He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it onto the kid's chin. It was then he noticed his own bruised and bloodied knuckles. _Blood. Dammit, I can't even have a little fun anymore_.

A few hours later he was sitting on the table in his house while receiving the _tender, loving_ care of Nurse Aileen. "You were suspended? Your first day back on patrol." She asked angrily while pressing hard against the wounds with a damp cloth. "For racial slurs?" After midnight, Tony could be forgiven for not knowing that Javier lay awake in his bed – listening to everything they were saying.

"Oww!" Tony said wincing against the pressure. "I don't think it was precisely a racial slur. Mexicans aren't a race, are they?"

Aileen tilted her head and gave Tony a look of utter contempt. "Tony, your own son is Mexican. How can you say these things? How can you even bear to think this way?"

He backpedaled. "The kid was resisting arrest. I fought back." He stretched out his other arm as though it were right there in front of them. "He swung at me first." Tony continued with a sigh. "It's a suspension with pay, pending the outcome of the investigation. I'm sure I'll be exonerated. The worst part – they had to let the kid go free. What a waste."

"You're going to have to stop fighting you know. If you are sick, there is a chance you could contaminate someone else." Aileen looked into Tony's eyes, leaned forward and kissed him with familiar warmth. "I need you to take more care."

"I will," Tony promised. And he meant it. But promises like this were sometimes difficult to keep. He decided this might be a good opportunity to change the subject. "You wouldn't believe what I saw in the sky tonight." He described this winged creature from a movie to his captivated wife.

"Amy Ott, saw a bird just like that. It's sounds creepy."

_A few days off. This is not supposed to be an opportunity, but I may take the chance to stop in and find out how Jane is doing. I'll confide in her. Tell her what I saw; perhaps she'll open up._

**Owen**

Over the next several weeks, just like the cactus moon flower on the roof of the mill, Selkie blossomed out of her quiet anguish. All the while Abby was consumed by the Rubik's cube. Selkie's gradual, steady restoration was heartening. Delighted with a rare success, Owen found himself spending more time with her. The sharp contrast with Abby couldn't be clearer. With Selkie, he felt useful.

She slowly opened up about the horrors of the faerie land. As promised, Owen listened without judgment, but couldn't decide if this was a fascinating imaginative tale, or if she really traveled to this world. Her steadfastness convinced him of her sincerity. But mostly, he listened to the fantastical experience. His life was utterly banal in comparison. A few times he interjected the idea that anyone in her position would make those same mistakes.

"But not anyone would find themselves in this position," she protested. _That's probably true_.

At nightfall he returned to the steel mill where Abby studied and manipulated the cube, all the while ignoring his presence. After a number of nights, a decrepit odor of decay emerged and then intensified. Low moans escaped from the agonizing contraction of her abdominal muscles. The ting of plastic against ceramic rang through the mill when she dropped the cube and grabbed hold of her midsection. When the waves of pain moderated, she recovered the puzzle and returned to her analysis. As usual, Owen was at a loss to figure out how to help her.

Fuzzy images of colored dots and radiating distress from her bowels haunted him until he retreated to the sustenance provided by Charlie's magic dust. With one powerful sniff, the intrusive visions of colors faded. He relaxed into a wondrous stupor. His sleep was fitful and unsatisfying, but at least it was sleep.

In the beginning, Owen joined Selkie on the floor of her bedroom where she remained seated. On the second day she had showered and changed her clothes. The third he noticed that her bed sheets were ruffled. _Maybe she got a good night's rest_. On the fourth day, she was wearing some makeup and a few earrings. While eating lunch one day, Owen commented on the change. "You don't need the makeup," he said. "You're prettier without it."

"I'm an artist. It's what I do." she said. Her reddened cheeks glowed through the foundation. "Thank you," she whispered bashfully while studying her macaroni and cheese.

In between her stories, Owen enjoyed a few more attempts at drawing. Some pictures were ordinary and others were goofy, but none achieved the power of his first portrait.

Throughout these days, Owen exchanged very few words with Jane. He still had not forgiven her for the deceit with the saint's blood. The animosity seemed mutual – a few times he caught anxious, irritated glances from her. By the fourth day, her fuming looked positively hateful. Owen was glad when Selkie suggested that they travel to their new house on Goat Hill to restore it for habitation.

"You have a new house?"

"Uh huh. We inherited it from a friend."

"Why aren't you staying there?" Owen asked.

Selkie shrugged, "The house isn't really fit to move into."

With jackets on, she wrapped one arm around Owen's and pulled him and a bucket of cleaning supplies toward Goat Hill. Within the city limits the house enjoyed a driveway which snaked past the tract housing of the street below. The mansion overlooked the interstate. "Wow, he must have been a good friend," Owen said.

"He was," she said with a solemn expression as she unlocked the front door.

The fully furnished inside of the mansion was dark, enormous and chilly. And the odor was stale and musty. "Let there be light," Selkie said as she flicked on the switch for the two story foyer. "And there was light … I love saying that." He heard the quiet thump of the furnace when she turned on the thermostat. It was already warmer than his normal accommodations.

To Owen's surprise, she opened up the cellar door and headed down to the basement. "Don't you think you should start cleaning in the upstairs? You would be able to move in right away."

"No, first the inner sanctum," Selkie answered.

At the top of the steps she tugged on a dangling string. A single incandescent light made little headway against the darkness. He almost slipped on the worn stone steps. Selkie descended into the darkness and turned on another light. "Usually, we prefer candles, but not today."

Owen took a much more measured pace for fear of some sort of angry basement monster. With no monster forthcoming (he must be biding his time for a better opportunity), Owen took a look around.

The basement reminded Owen of the steel mill. It reeked of mold and dampness. On the walls, made from stacks of decaying stone and mortar, someone painted red images just like Abby's drawings at the mill. The center of the dirt floor held a solid stone altar. In front of the altar, two stone arches were placed facing each other. Owen tapped on them and decided they were paper maché. The humming, mechanical gray furnace looked out of place in the ancient decor. On one wall and on the altar, Owen spotted a half-dozen steel shackles at varying height. He picked one up, expected the hinges to be rusted shut, but with a clank he tested the functionality – good as new. "What are these for?" he asked.

"Are you into that sort of thing?" Selkie asked with a grin.

Owen didn't even know what "that sort of thing" was.

Noticing his expression she continued, "We never used them in our rituals. I can imagine what sort of ceremonies the original owners intended … animal sacrifices and the like. Nothing too kinky."

Owen felt uneasy at the low ceiling and gloomy darkness. "This is an evil place," he said.

"Let's see if we can fix that," Selkie gathered water and bleach in the buckets and gathered some hand brushes with stiff nylon bristles. "Here grab one," she said handing him a brush. "We need to get rid of these symbols."

"Why do we need to clean these?" Owen wondered. "Aren't these just like Abby's symbols at the mill?"

"These are nothing like your symbols. Yours symbols are of protection – these are lures. They are meant to attract evil."

Over the next few days, they spent their time scrubbing the walls clean. Selkie wasn't satisfied with simply removing the blood. She needed to remove all traces of residue. The blood left a dark stain after it was gone. Finally, Selkie tried vinegar after the bleach. The cleansing became much more effective, but the smell was nauseating – or worse when combined with the effects from Charlie's powder. It required almost a week, but finally the basement walls were scrubbed clean.

Owen had grown so used to this routine and the idea of finding a simple pleasure in someone's company that his sleeping habits meandered back to almost normal. Out of boredom, his shifts of watching Abby grew shorter so that he could go to sleep earlier. Each morning he woke up earlier to enjoy a breakfast with Jane and Selkie before heading over to the house on Goat Hill.

During this time, Owen asked about the poem only once. He also asked about Jane's bitterness. Selkie dismissed his questions outright. "I don't think it means anything," she insisted. Owen wasn't sure if she was talking about Jane or the poem. "We've had a tough time with our friends' death. I think it's me she's angry at." She shook when she said it. She was afraid.

What little hope he had remaining rested with that poem. He needed to understand it. _When things settle down_, he thought, _I'll raise the question again_.

After about a week, the basement was cleaned of all but its "negative aura" as Selkie called it. This power-cleaning involved some sort of sacred renewal ritual; but it would have to wait until a special, hallowed day. They moved to the upstairs to restore the first floor to habitability. _It still feels wrong_ – but better than the mill and, as if to prove his point, he fell asleep one night in a spare bedroom.

He jolted awake to a nightmare of twisting, colored birds wheeling and swooping in defensive evasion. He was alone in the darkened house. He made his way out the door, stumbling back to the mill under the frigid waxing crescent moon. Glancing up, he noticed a large bat illuminated by the stars. _Abby? No – even larger_. Drowning in cowardice, he buried himself in the shadows hiding from the creature. Then, he hurried back to the mill and found comfort in Charlie's powder.

Routines can't continue forever, and it was on one such night that Owen encountered the affliction of an empty plastic bag. He paced back and forth until he remembered a second baggie in his pocket. _Rice_ – He downed a few grains, but it was no help. Disturbed by sharpened visions of rotating colors – Abby's focus on the Rubik's cube - he couldn't sleep. Finally, agitated with uncertainty, Owen braved the putrid odor and climbed into the cold crucible next to her. He watched her unravel the patterns.

For the first time in weeks, clarity grew within his thoughts. He could almost understand what Abby saw when she studied the cube. Her twists had a purpose. Through Abby, he became involved and, in turn, captivated by the patterns. There was a beauty in the structure that he hadn't noticed before.

As his awareness grew, Abby gained confidence. She twisted the puzzle with more conviction. In a few hours the first side, the blue side was complete. She spun the puzzle in her hands to study the new patterns. With a furious twisting, she moved the sides through recognizable algorithms; negotiating the patterns to realign the colors. Almost before he could believe it, the puzzle was solved. Sixteen squares on each side matched – the oranges with orange and greens with greens. Staggering – her understanding in that apparently simple cube was mystical.

Abby rotated the cube in her hands studying the matching colors. She let out a sigh of satisfaction. "That was really tough," she said. With stiff hair crinkling Abby settled her head into Owen's ribs.

Owen coughed from Abby's rancidity. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't expect the gift to trouble you so much."

"What?" Abby said with a huge grin of satisfaction. "Don't be sorry. I loved it. Thank you. I think this was the most difficult puzzle I've ever tried." She held the cube out in front of her and stared at the colors. "Look at it. Isn't it amazing?"

"Yeah, it is," Owen agreed. "Would you like me to mix it up again? You can try to solve it one more time."

"Why would I want that?" Abby asked. "I solved it. We'll keep it just like this."

Bluish veins appeared on Abby's forehead and cheeks. She jerked forward with a rumbling wail. For a good fifteen seconds Owen felt the torment reflected in his midsection – an insubsantial echo of Abby's torment.

"How long has it been?" Abby asked when the pain subsided.

"How long has what been?"

"How long have I been working on the puzzle?" Her face contorted in an angry grimace. "How long since I've eaten?"

"I don't know," Owen said trying to remember. It was before Christmas. "Maybe three or four weeks."

"Weeks?" A tear ran down Abby's disfigured cheeks. Her happiness over the puzzle faded from their awareness. She tilted her head back into Owen's side. "Please," she said, "I don't want to kill anymore."

Owen rubbed his hand over Abby's shoulder for comfort. "I'll try to help. What will happen if you don't eat? How long before you die?"

"I don't know. I don't think it would kill me, but I'd be in torture. I think I'd rather die."

Owen finally figured out the puzzle. She wanted to eat … she just didn't want to kill anybody. This was his job – his calling. His purpose in life. Not cleaning out some random basement. He was going to have to find the strength.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Massacre of the Innocents

**Owen**

He sat there in quiet contemplation for a few moments trying to decide how best to help her. He couldn't think of any good choices. "I'll think about it," he said. "Maybe I can do something." He had no idea what, but he wanted to think through his options. "Not tonight – it's almost morning."

"You're sweet." Abby rubbed his cheek in affection. With a satisfied smile she added, "That's not what I meant. I know I need to kill … I just don't want to." Her dispirited expression faded into a resigned hopelessness. Once again her bowels rebelled in pain. "Let's get some sleep," she said.

She grabbed his hand and walked him out of the crucible and over to the mattress. Pulling the blankets over their heads sleep began to overtake her.

"I almost forgot to tell you," Owen said. "I saw something strange in the sky tonight."

"I know," she said, "I felt him." She drifted asleep with the sunrise.

Having grown accustomed to daylight hours, Owen lay there awake all day contemplating Abby's wishes. Companionship meant sacrifices, and Abby needed much greater sacrifices than most. Today he remained at her side in the mill. But he couldn't police his thoughts. At times they wandered to the short term contentment he discovered with the comparatively normal Selkie. After awhile his thoughts returned to the challenge of Abby's needs. He had to find a way to help her – relieve her of her suffering.

**Tony Sacco**

Tony pounded on the back entrance to The Blazing Crescent, "Come on Jane, let me in."

Jane traipsed down the stairs and opened the door, "We have a doorbell. You don't have to pound it so hard." She said with her eyes shut tight against the morning sun.

"I rang it three times," Tony protested.

"What can I do for you today … business or friendship?" She noticed his denim jeans and orange Broncos sweatshirt. "You're in your civvies. It must be a social call."

"It's a little bit of both. I'm off duty," he said ignoring the part where he was on suspension. "I thought it might be worthwhile to check up on you two."

"Is that detective with you?"

"No, he's back in Denver."

"Well then come on up." She left the door open as an invitation when she started up the stairs. Wrapped in her white terry cloth bathrobe, she collapsed in the family room sofa. "Do you want a coffee or anything?" she asked.

"Sure. I'd love some."

"No problem … you know how to make it, right?"

"Yea, I guess so," he answered a little mystified. _I'm the guest here, right?_

"Could you make me some, too?"

In the Kitchen, Tony gathered the materials and ingredients for the coffee. He tried the vanilla coffee, it seemed the most commonplace of the available choices. While the coffee percolated, Jane turned on the television. The contestant landed on "bankrupt" just as Tony delivered the hot coffee.

"What I'd really like to do is talk to Selkie," Tony said.

"She hasn't been spending much time here lately."

"I guess that means that she must be feeling better."

"Yes, she seems to be doing well." Jane seemed irritated at Selkie's improvement.

"Do you think maybe I could take a glance at her drawings? Something I saw the other day reminded me of them."

"What are you looking for?" Jane asked. She sat up in her seat, ignoring the television for a moment.

"I saw something in the sky the other night. It looked like a giant bat. The zoo calls them 'flying foxes'. I watched them for awhile – it's kind of weird how big they are … about half the size of a person. I thought I saw one the other night, but my memory may have distorted its proportions. It looked different. The zoo claimed none were missing."

"Yeah, go ahead and look at the pictures. Take your time," she waved him back to hallway and returned to life with letter guessing contestants.

Scattered drawings lay around the floor just as he remembered. Collecting the drawings one by one he scanned them for a moment before placing them in the stack. Finally he found the one he was searching for. With an extended snout, sharp teeth and wings, the howling, snarling gargoyle was perched on top of the cedar table.

He brought the drawing out to Jane and showed it to her. "Is this it? Is this what you saw?"

Blood drained from Jane's face and neck. She silenced the television. She whispered, "You saw it, too." It was a statement more than a question.

"What is it?" Tony asked.

"It is the creature of the sixth seal. I'm sure of it. "'And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood.'"

"That doesn't sound like something that I want to be a part of. Is there something else we should do?"

"The story continues, 'And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains … For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?'"

_Now I remember why we stopped hanging out with her_. Tony always hated when Jane talked like. _Can't she just use English_? "I don't even understand what you're saying. So we should hide in the mountain caves and if anything goes wrong, we pray for an avalanche. Is that right?"

Jane nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"Okay." Tony paused trying to come up with another approach, "… instead why don't we try to develop another plan. This thing must come from the mountains, so I'd rather not go there. There have been a few sightings in the city. You don't think he's moved into the city, do you?"

Jane leaned back on the arm of her sofa chair. "He's scouting out locations, so he must not settled in here yet. But I feel pretty confident I know where he'll wind up."

"Where's that?"

"Isn't it obvious? The abandoned steel mill. It's perfect for this sort of creature."

"You think so?" Jane nodded. "All right … all right that makes some sort of sense, and this is your area of expertise. What should we do to be ready for him?"

"I will establish a prayer altar and try glean some guidance from the goddess. In the mean time, you need to figure out if someone is drawing it to the city."

"Who would do that?"

"There is always some sort of nut who think they are being called to greatness with the evil spirits."

Tony shared an awkward, friendly hug with Jane. _Yes, there is always some sort of nut out there_. "Thanks a lot. I was at a loss here. This thing gave me the creepers. Do you think we could have a plan to stop this thing before it kills again?"

"I don't know. I'll pray for it."

"I was hoping for something more functional than prayer."

"I can check my books, too. I might find something there. That's all I got."

"Thanks again. Oh, one more thing," Tony said heading down the steps. "Your father's body was one of the few things to survive Christmas. We still have it in the morgue. I'll …. I'll see what I can do about getting it released. I don't think we'll need it anymore." A peace offering to keep her motivated. He hoped it would work.

**Owen**

All day, Owen lay awake trying to decide what to do. When Abby stirred with dusk, Owen left the mill to give him more time to collect his thoughts.

With his ember of hope nearly extinguished, he wandered the streets aimlessly. Low rolling clouds provided an adversary to the trembling stillness of his deliberation. The murderous cold of the Colorado winter had arrived. _Is killing someone really any different than what he has been doing for years? I wouldn't even know how to do it. I've avoided the idea of death my entire life with Abby._

He roamed the streets for hours without any coalescence of his courage. Owen knew he would one day face this challenge, but his cowardice overwhelmed him with heedless optimism. Just like the old neighbor from his childhood, Abby needed him to kill. It was more than an aversion to death. It was a struggle Abby faced her entire life. Owen felt her contempt at that abomination every cycle, but he failed to find the backbone to carry the burden. His greatest failure – and that was saying a lot.

An idea began to develop. He checked his pockets for any money remaining from Charlie. He still had two twenties, two tens and eight one dollar bills remaining in his pocket. He smoothed out the large bills and placed them in his left pocket and he shoved the ones into his right along with his rice and bell. _Sixty dollars that was the price … right? Yeah that was it, sixty dollars. D Street._ That's where he needed to go to scout out a street walker … not for him, but for Abby. With luck, he the sixty dollars would convince one to follow him home. Just like Abby suggested with her morbid joke the first night in Pueblo – he could invite one to dinner.

He strolled the few additional blocks to D Street, satisfied that he was making an intelligent, thoughtful decision. To his surprise the block was completely empty. No streetwalkers, no preacher, no drug dealers, and no cars. Not even so much as a stray dog. _What happened_? He stood there at the corner of Victoria Ave. staring in disbelief. Just a few blocks removed from the bustling River Walk and the city government – the evening streets were abandoned. _Where'd the hell did they go_? So much for the best laid plans.

While he stood there deciding what to do next, a shiver from the cold grew into powerful, painful shakes. His hearing cut in and out. Owen couldn't control himself at all. His breathing became short and heavy. Afraid for his sanity, he fell to one knee and let out a loud yell. Finally, after a few moments, he started to recover from the spasms. He collected a handful of snow and ate it like he was a child. It helped calm him down. _I can't just give up._

The night he met Charlie, he heard voices from a nearby parking garage. It wasn't very far away – perhaps five or six blocks. Someone could help him there. And the walk would be good for him.

Past the convention center, Owen found the voices. Down three flights of concrete stairs a group of kids not much older than him were gathered smoking in heated elevator vestibule. "Hey," Owen said in greeting. Their laughter stopped and one of the kids nodded to him in return. "Do you think you could help me out?"

"Maybe," the kid wore a thick gray sweatshirt and a solid black bandana covering his scalp. "It depends what you're looking for."

"Um," Owen said. He wasn't sure why he was hesitating, but he was a little embarrassed with the subject. "Do you know where the girls have gone?"

All five of the kids snickered like he said the funniest joke in the world. "Girls, what girls?" The leader of the quintet asked.

"You know … the hookers."

Another round of laughter started. "What do you think this is … 411?" he said. "We're businessmen. If you're buying, we're selling."

"What're you selling?"

The kid held out a small, sealed bag of white crystals.

"Oh, okay," Owen said. He had to buy it – to get the information he needed. "How much?"

"A hundred dollars," he answered.

Owen's startled eyes opened up like a pair of full moons, "A hundred dollars?" Another round of laughter – this time Owen was sure the laughter came at his expense. "I have it back at my place. Why don't you come with me and I'll get it for you?"

"No way, amigo," the kid said. "All business is conducted in the place of service." _Why doesn't that ever work … just once_? "Go get the money and maybe we'll still be here when you get back."

Owen left a little despondent, but he was driven by hunger … hunger for the white powder. His nerve endings pulsed with their own desperate cravings for some more pixie dust. He wasn't sure where he was going to find the money, but he knew he was going to try. That little white bag of powder provided a forceful motivation. The need to feed Abby's thirst escaped to the farthest reaches of his mind.

Not far down the street, Owen found a few cars waiting in the train station parking lot. Inside a small sedan, the owner made the mistake of leaving their purse. A little bit of green stuck out of the clasp. He tried the door but it was locked. Scouring the parking lot, he found a large rock, and with it he smashed out the passenger side window. _Dammit_ – the car's alarm deafened the otherwise peaceful silence. Quickly, he opened the door, and grabbed the money sticking out of the edge. With little thought to how much he procured, he ran down Court Street.

In the distance of the fading car alarm, nobody followed him. He slowed to a walk and counted the money. Forty-four dollars … it was enough.

A few minutes later, shaking with the unstable, temporary conviction of addiction, Owen handed the hundred dollars to the gleeful, bandana wearing youths. That quickly, Owen let more money slip through his fingers than at any time of his short life. "Do you have a needle?" Owen asked shaking.

"Yeah, sure," they said pleased that they now made their payday. Owen took off his coat and placed it on the floor. He tied the elastic tourniquet around his bicep. In the mean time, the others boiled the glowing yellow liquid in a spoon and handed the fresh, full syringe to Owen. Shaking so much from the excitement of anticipation, Owen could barely find the vein. With the depression of a plunger he found a welcoming moment of incomprehensible contentment. Before he lost all lucidity, he found a short moment of peace. "Where do you keep the women?"

The laughter sounded as though he were far away and underwater. "Try B Street, near the train station," one of them said. Owen grabbed his coat and road the turbulent concrete escalator out of the parking garage. He barely felt the cold while he wandered the nighttime streets. _Which way to B Street_? The street names made no sense. Maelstrom Street, Anguish Avenue and Perdition Drive … _I don't remember these streets_.

When the sun rose, Owen was lost and tired. He stumbled past a steam grate for a flash of warmth. Without fully comprehending the reason, Owen found himself turning around and laying down. The hot metal chafed across his cheek – ecstacy. As he sauntered into dreamland, Owen considered that the night was a complete waste. He should have worked with Selkie to understand that poem.

When he woke hours later, he forgot all about the poem. His overcoat, with its bloody residue, was gone.

xXx

"Where the hell have you been?" Abby demanded in a deep, rumbling growl that sounded just like his mother and nothing like her at the same time.

Startled by the outburst, Owen steadied himself. "I was … um … looking for someone to bring back for you," he stammered. "I'm sorry. I didn't find anyone."

The metal of the bin rang through the mill when she pounded the side of it. "What am I fuckin' supposed to do?" Her glare demanded a response. "Huh?" Silence; she pounded the bin once again. "Well? Go out and do it myself?"

Owen winced from the boundless power of her agitation. The pain of her need radiated at the base of his skull. Owen had nobody to blame but himself. He had woken up over the steam grate to the pervasive gray of an overcast daytime sky. Stepping off the grate brought such a sudden burst of cold that he leaped back for the heat. Lacking a coat, it was a prison without bars. He paced for hours over his few square feet of warmth while a few irritated pedestrians passed him by. A "tsk" and a shake of their heads was the universal signal of disgust.

After a few hours, the clouds had cleared, but the sunlight was just a tease – the warmth didn't reach the ground. He finally worked up the courage to step off the steam grate and stay off. By then, he understood the staggering abyss of failure. Blocks away from the mill, yet he felt the concussive force of her outrage. He could do nothing other than shuffle back to the mill and confess his failure.

Confined by the daylight, Abby paced back and forth around the mill. A powerful spasm washed over her. Owen felt the tears of frustration. "It'll be okay. I'll try again tonight," Owen begged.

The meager declaration provoked another outburst of profane anger. "I don't want you to try again. I want you to leave." Conflicted with pity and hunger, she fell to her knees in tears.

Owen approached her with an attempt at words of comfort, but she whipped out her arm and knocked him off his feet. "I'll go," he said and headed for the door.

"Good," she said.

Churning winds caused him to regret the choice immediately. He wished he had that coat. "Just let me warm up for a few minutes," he pleaded.

Curled up on the floor, thrashing in the throes of pain, Owen accepted her silence as consent. He broke off a few planks of wood and added them to the fire. Paradoxically, he shivered as the warmth reached his skin. Closing his eyes, he welcomed the purifying, acrid smoke.

Whether it was the remnant of the drugs or the warmth, Owen found himself standing in the same spot hours later with dusk approaching. With barely a purr, Abby snaked back and forth along the western wall. Her passionate anger flared from her eyes.

"Abby, just take me," Owen said. "I want you to."

The flash of anger hit him with a thundering fury. Abby struck him shortly thereafter, forcing him to the ground. With tears in her crackling blue eyes, she began breathing deeper and louder … sniffing the air. She leaned her crooked teeth closer to his neck. "No," she whispered. "I can't." Owen didn't understand Abby's emotions, but he felt the conflict with her instincts.

She caught a whiff of something … something sweet. With one last wail, wings began to form at the base of her neck. She scampered up the wall next to the hand rails and erupted through the hatch in the roof.

_Shit_, Owen thought. He raced over to the door. Dashing outside after, he fought the burning winter cold. _I'm supposed to prevent this. _

Abby had a head start, and he had to maneuver around the fence. Worse yet ... she was undeniably fast. He closed his eyes and concentrated on her path. With the first sensation, he raced after her. At each corner, he had to stop and sense her direction. She darted back and forth. Owen had trouble locating her, but he refused to give in to another failure. He had no idea what to do when he arrived.

**Lorena Prindle**

Lorena sat up in her new queen size bed and removed the finicky infant from her breast. She reached her hand under the babies smock and caressed the bare skin, "Shh, quiet little one. You'll wake your father."

"Too late," Roberto moaned from the billowing shelter of his fluffy pillow. He rolled over and stared at his wife with sleepy red eyes. "What's wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Not unless you can provide some milk."

"I can't help you there."

"He's just a little colicky. I think I'll take him for a ride in his stroller."

"A ride in the stroller? At this hour?"

"Just around the block. He seems to enjoy the motion. And this will give you some peace and quiet so you can sleep." She handed the baby to the clumsy care of Roberto. "Hold on to him, while I get a warm set of clothes."

"Getting him dressed will take you longer than the walk."

"Yeah," Lorena shrugged, "I need to get a little fresh air, too. I spend too much time cooped up inside, taking care of your child. Winters are never like this in Atlanta."

The baby laughed and cooed next to her sleepy husband while she dressed. Roberto smiled when the baby grabbed tight onto his forefinger. She paused to enjoy the slow bond forming between father and child. A gentle miracle ... here in her home. He laid his head down next to the child before his breathing settled into an intoxicating rhythm. Each time the baby cried out, Roberto twitched for a moment before settling back into rest.

A few minutes later, the bundled pair escaped through the front door leaving the loudest member of the family snoring, embraced by warmth of a thick goose down comforter.

Within minutes, Lorena regretted the arctic expedition. At least the baby seemed to be enjoying it. Wind whipped through the narrow streets slicing into her exposed face. She tightened the blanket around her child and burrowed her cheeks in her wool scarf. She decided to cut the walk short – through the narrow alley. The swirling wind produced a loud, high pitched whistle like an organ pipe.

When she turned the corner, she noticed the baby bag of spare wipes and diapers scattered well behind her on the sidewalk. Disgusted with her negligence, Lorena left the stroller, with the brake on (of course), in the protected alley while she ran to collect her belongings.

On her return she was surprised to see a wayward, shivering teenager across the street donned in only a torn, black T-shirt and denim jeans. Waves of mist trembled out of his lips. He was breathing heavy, like he had just completed a long run. The T-shirt hardly seemed out of place – it was his expression of fright which captured her attention. It didn't belong in the wintry realm. Worried for her child, she jogged back to the alley and discovered the source of his alarm. Her blood-curdling scream was a visceral response to the worst possible terror of a new parent. Neighbors flocked out of their homes to help. Turning around she noticed the boy had fled.

**Abby**

Her body screamed for satisfaction. As soon as she was free of the protective confines of the mill, she realized her mistake, but she couldn't fight two hundred years of weakness. An unnatural hunger drove her beyond reason. The tingling sensation of her pursuer focused on her like a powerful sonar. Her uncle was searching for her. Now that she was outside of the walls, he could find her.

Pain and hunger overwhelmed her thoughts with the sweet smell of blood. It was everywhere, all around her, overflowing her senses with desire. Most were trapped behind the impenetrable walls of private buildings. She dashed over roof tops; her feet barely touching before pushing off again. She finally found herself above an alley near the smell of life.

She dropped into the alley and settled in a crouch. "Help me," Abby pleaded as the woman pushed some sort of cart around the corner.

Forgetting the carriage in the alley, the woman turned away. She didn't heed Abby's plea … at all._ Are you kidding me?_ The cravings were so powerful. A wicked, honeyed odor wafted from the carriage, drawing Abby toward her need. She lifted up the blanket.

In mere seconds she had consumed her fill. Blood dripping from her lips, she glanced up and saw him ... Owen was standing there, staring with a look of absolute hatred before he turned and fled. _What have I done?_ She broke the infant's neck and race after him. For the first time in centuries, she was truly terrified … terrified of his rejection.

**Owen**

Barely aware of the cold, Owen ran, trying to escape. He didn't even know the direction he was heading. The towering smokestack of the steel mill was a beacon guiding him back.

When he finally reached it, the pillar stretched to the highest point in the sky – a thin, tapered needle pointing to the heavens with its eye at the very precipice. Outside the mill, a belt conveyor led to a silo above the roof. Once used to feed mountains of coke to the hungry furnace, the conveyor now lay dormant. Owen climbed up the belt to the peaceful garden atop the roof. But the rooftop was not high enough; it could not satisfy his emptiness. He ascended the metal rungs on the outside of the towering smokestack. There were hundreds of them.

His muscles ached from the struggle. Each metal handhold was a reminder of the burning cold, but he continued his climb. The tallest structure in the city, miles of land stretched before him. He saw headlights cast from a few miniscule cars driving on the streets; he heard a train whistle from a locomotive steaming across the bridge; and he stared across the violent frenzy of the lifeless river. But these visions were too earthly, almost profane.

He continued upward – higher than the pinnacle of the train station's clock tower and higher than the roof of the ten story bank building where Abby and he enjoyed Halloween night. His arms trembled from the cold, yet he continued to climb. The immense plains of Eastern Colorado stretched out before him and to the west the outline of the Greenhorn Mountain Range shadowed the horizon. He continued his ascension until he finally reached the top rung of the monolithic structure. It swayed in the wind. The crushing, isolating stillness was deafening.

Stretching with all his might, Owen raised his hand up to grasp the stars. He wanted to touch her … to become close to her ... the beautiful Andromeda was within his grasp, but he couldn't quite reach her. He placed his foot on the top rung and using the lip of the smokestack, he pulled himself a little higher. One more heave, he strained … through his frozen tears, he knew he was close. He could almost do it … he could almost touch the face of God.

"What are you doing, Owen?"

Startled by the voice, Owen nearly fell. He grabbed hold of the lip and shivered from the cold and confusion. His thin, tattered shirt thrashed loudly in the wind. Just beneath him, the delicate vision of Abby clung to the smokeshaft lip … blood-stained cheeks, just like he'll always remember. "I don't know," he cried. Frustrated tears flowed from his eyes, stinging his cheeks. "I just started running. I kept running until I couldn't go any further."

"A coward dies a thousand deaths, but a brave man dies but once," Abby said.

"That's me. I've died a thousand times."

"No, it's me. I'm the coward," Abby said. He could barely hear her in the devastating winds. "With each death, a little more of me dies. I've died a thousand times … maybe more. You're my light of courage." She stared off into the distance at the Greenhorns. A flicker of motion caught her attention. "Please come down. Come into the warmth. I'm not angry anymore."

"Why won't you take me? Why won't you accept me?'

"I can't, Owen … I just can't," she answered. "I don't know how to explain it. I need you to stay the way you are. I need you whole. Please climb down. You're frightening me."

Owen glanced up to the heavens one more time and then consented. His flimsy T-shirt was not going to withstand the battering winds much longer. He started down the ladder. His muscles twitched in rebellion – the fingers worst of all. A few rungs down, the fingers couldn't keep the grip and his hand slipped. He felt his stomach fly up to his throat as he began to fall. The roof of the mill rose up to meet him. He closed his eyes and he welcomed it.

His precipitous fall was arrested suddenly. He looked up and saw the vision of a winged demon, overshadowed by a starry canvas. She held onto his ankle and struggled against the weight of his descent. It wasn't enough. Her intervention slowed his fall, but couldn't stop it. His shoulder crashed into the roof, deflecting his rib cage awkwardly. With the wind knocked out of him, Owen writhed in silent pain.

Air finally flooded his lungs and a scream escaped. He pushed himself up on his knees. He laughed at the thought of his anxious, racing heartbeat. "Thanks, Abby. I thought that was the end."

Abby's wings folded into her side, but her eyes shuddered with hatred. "You fuckin' coward," she growled. "It's your fault. He found me. You need to leave … you need to leave now." She turned and disappeared down the rabbit hole.

Owen tried to quell his confusion and bring peace to his thoughts. He reached out to Abby. Anger and hatred bled through the bond. For a few moments he remained on the roof trying to register order in the chaos. The bitter cold defeated him. He had to choose between facing another set of railings or remain in the cold. He chose to climb down, but slowly.

Abby knelt at the center of the mill with her hands at her side. The passion of her demonic visage remained. "Would you like me to clean you off?" Abby didn't move or say anything.

She wasn't polluted badly. Frozen blood stained only her face and sleeves. Owen retrieved a bucket of water and a change of shirt.

A little while later, a clean, but still agitated Abby rested in Owen's aching ribs. Sore from the fall, pain radiated through his chest. He had to reposition her to get comfortable. Her soft hair smelled of cinnamon. He reached out to touch her hand. "Abby," he said. "What do you remember of the other caretakers in your life?"

"Their faces … their names. Sometimes I get the memories mixed up. It's a jumble, really."

"What will you do after I die?"

"What do you mean?" she asked. "I'll go on. Like I always do."

"I don't live forever," he said. "I may not live very long. I think I may be sick." He trembled from worry and self-doubt. He didn't understand the disruptive anger. He feared Abby's reaction. Owen hoped he was someone special for her. He wished for that affirmation.

Saturated with new found nourishment, her body relaxed in his arms. "You need to leave," she whispered. Owen didn't understand. "That blood," Abby continued, "that blood was soooo sweet."

"Abby, please. I'm trying to talk to you." He searched for the right words. "Do you remember the others? Will you forget me when I'm gone?"

"No," she said. Her languid eyelids fluttered with drowsiness. The unexpected comment hit with the full force of her indifference. "I forget you now."

The words hurt, but the way she said it with calm, casual certainty made them sting even more. _What am I doing here? _ With her slumber, the repugnance of the evening's events slammed back into the forefront of Owen's awareness. _I can't believe I let her… I made her … kill that baby. She's right. I am a fucking coward._

"Goodbye, Owen," she whispered.

To escape his self-immolation, Owen routed through his pockets and pulled out the white powder. _The coward's solution … perfect._ His nostrils were set ablaze from the inhalation. With the power of pixie dust, he escaped to a new reality. No more infants. In a few days or a week, he was going to have to find another victim. _ Or maybe I should just let Abby choose_. Another failure intruded his thoughts – _that prayer, that fucking prayer. I spent almost a month with Selkie and I never tried to understand that poem._


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Moskstraumen

**Javier**

The lunchroom was like a morgue. Everybody whispered in subdued voices. Even Mrs. Peabody was kind to Lazarus when he sneezed. She passed him some tissues, with latex covered hands, and asked if she could get him anything. Way too kind and polite. It must have something to do with the new president they talked about in Social Studies. He said we need to be "kinder" and "gentler" or something like that.

Javier made a daily trek to the steel mill, but it was boring. Abby just sat there working on the puzzle. Through trial and error he learned that when the door was easy to open, the other guy wasn't around. When he fought the latch, something was placed under the door handle. He could work the door free, but it wasn't worth the trouble. The big guy would be waiting with his metal rod.

"Bless you," Javier said when Lazarus sneezed again. After an extended, painful chest spasm, he coughed up some gnarly green phlegm and spit it into his napkin. Javier tried to comfort him. "I hate when that happens. It feels all slimy and gross."

"Yeah, it sucks having a cold," Lazarus said.

"Do you think you'll have to take off from school again? For the cold, I mean."

"I've been trying to hide it from everybody, but the teachers seem to know … this is my last day."

After finishing his cheeseburger, Javier started in on his cinnamon flavored apple crisp. He loved the sugar rush. "That's a bummer. How long do you think you'll be out this time?"

Lazarus looked puzzled at the question. "This is it. I'm not coming back."

"What do you mean you're not coming back? Where you gonna to go to school?"

"I'm not going to school anymore."

"That is so cool." Javier said. "How'd you swing that sweet deal? I don't think I'm going to go to school anymore either."

Once again, Lazarus looked perplexed. He stumbled over the words trying to find a way to explain it. Instead, Caleb interjected, "Your funny." He laughed. "You know he's dying, right?"

Javier grew flushed with embarrassment. _How could he laugh at an idea like that_? "Sure … I knew that," he muttered. Then he corrected himself. "What do you mean you're dying? I have trouble breathing sometimes, too. It doesn't mean that I'm dying."

Lazarus just answered. "I'm sick. I was born sick. I'm not upset … it's a miracle I've lived this long." Then he added the comment that almost broke Javier's spirit. "Thank you for being nice to me. You're about the only one."

Javier ignored the rest of his apple crisp. He formed a crazy, wild idea. The first time he felt a firm conviction about anything. "Caleb, do you think you can make it home this afternoon by yourself?"

"Sure," Caleb answered. "I do it all the time. Why?"

"After school, your brother and I are taking a long walk."

**Tony Sacco**

"We need you back … tonight." Tony caught the desperation in his boss' voice.

"I missed you too chief," he replied into the phone. "I thought I was suspended."

"Your suspension has been suspended. Roberto didn't come in, and we can't get a hold of Jesse. I have too many patrol routes and not enough officers."

"But I have plans tonight." Aileen is working a double shift at the hospital. There was another television special in anticipation of this weekend's Superbowl – an entire hour of ESPN dedicated to teaching the "Ickey Shuffle". Another day of thoughtless vegetation.

"I don't really give a shit what your plans are. We are short, and I need you here."

"All right; all right. It's a good thing I'm tall then." The pun fell flat – his humor was completely unappreciated. "I'll be there shortly. It's nice to be needed."

Tony dug a pressed uniform out of the closet, wrote out a note for Javier to go to his grandmother's after school, and headed over to the police station to pick up his route_. I wonder what's going on with the others._

The station was nearly empty at this hour aside from dispatch. He received no answers there. Collecting his paper work, he signed out and began the routine patrol. It was frigid and monotonous. To think – he was wasting gas driving around while he could be doing something productive, like learning Ickey's best moves.

Even with the additional territory to cover, he was confident that this night will result in an eternity of boredom.

**Owen**

Owen tossed and turned until early afternoon with dreams about boiling rivers of blood. The hatred of Abby's words haunted him. Craven, coward, gutless, spineless, a baby … take your pick they all fit. It's no wonder she despised him … didn't want him to stay with her. Even sleeping, she invaded his dreams.

The prayer was his last hope. Selkie … he should return to her house and convince her to develop an answer. _What the hell could it mean_? 'Concentrated blood of a saint.'

He tried to leave, but he couldn't. Repulsed by the cold winds, Owen took measure of his circumstances. He had no coat on a frigid, January day in Colorado. Not much hope for that unless he was planning to wait until spring.

_Drugs will help_. They boiled his blood, making him immune to the cold. He removed the remainder from his pocket and swallowed the lot. His throat burned from irritation, bowels heaved with spasmodic hatred, bile percolated up his throat. He forced it back down. Frustrated with himself, he jogged to the bathroom and placed his mouth under the water faucet. The water cleansed the fire within and calmed his stomach. Moreover, the voices of hatred grew quiet. He could ignore her and rationalize a plan.

As the sun set and, with the warmth provided by the drugs, he headed once again outside the mill. His judgment clouded, landmarks held no meaning. He meandered around the city until he was just about completely lost. Almost accidentally, he looked up and noticed the shadowy house on the hill. _That's the house_ … he had been circling around this area for what seemed like hours. Just take the hill. Then he'd find Selkie.

Ascending the hill required a ferocious battle with his will. _I didn't think the hill was this steep_. Halfway up, cars drove past a busy intersection. _Why am I shivering so much_? His muscles burned … he found a stop sign and braced himself against it. The rest was wonderful. He told himself he should keep moving. But the support provided by the signpost allowed him to close his eyes.

Owen was startled by the vision of a bright light. _Is this it? Is what I'm waiting for?_ A loud, booming voice called out "Hey buddy, you need to stop molesting city property. That's why it says 'stop'. Back away from the pole, before I charge you with corruption of an underage traffic sign."

"God?" Owen asked.

"No," the voice chuckled. The uniformed officer walked around the idling patrol car. "Why don't you come with me?"

Owen looked up the hill at his destination. _Selkie's house, how did I miss it before?_ He was almost there. "I can't. I have someplace I have to go."

"Yes you do. You need to come with me," the officer said. He grabbed hold of Owen's shirt collar.

Owen swung wildly and screamed, "No! I have somewhere I need to be."

The police officer laughed. "You just made my night." A fist came swinging around and landed a punch mid-chest. His ribs screamed in pain and Owen collapsed on the sidewalk. "That's it? Just one punch?" The officer grabbed his wrist and provided a gift of metal bracelets. "Watch your head," the man said lowering Owen into the back seat of the car. It was warm in there. Owen closed his eyes trying to sleep, but he felt the bile rising in his throat again.

**Abby**

"Goodbye, Owen." She was unnaturally alone. For the first time in six years, she lied to him. She hated herself for it, but he was gone … from the mill and from her thoughts. She had visions of her uncle out there, searching for her. It had been a hundred years. The visions seemed so lifelike - she had trouble avoiding the fear that she wasn't quite sane.

Owen found a way to disappear from her radar. She didn't know how he accomplished it, but she hoped he was hours away from the city by now. With luck, he jumped a train or a bus. He needed to find his own way in the world without her. The danger was too great. She gave a silent prayer for his future. She would never forget him.

She picked up the solved cube and studied it. Each side's matching colors were a wondrous sight to behold. It had been years since she was challenged by such a tremendous puzzle, maybe ever. Yet, she regretted wasting the last month fixated with finding a solution. Lying down on the mattress, she placed the cube in front of her eyes. She turned it over several times, enjoying the solid patterns. The mattress stunk of the sweet smell of Owen.

A memory intruded … the sweet taste of life contained within the infant's blood, tickled her palate. Her hunger was satisfied, but only for a short while. Babies don't carry much blood. The cravings will grow to overpower her within a few days.

Alone, Abby wandered around the mill. It was so quiet, she almost couldn't bear it. Above her she saw flickering movements from the family of bats hibernating in the ghostly shadows. She decided to join them - for companionship. Wings sprouted from her neck; her feet and hands transformed into claws. With one wild swish of her wings, she soared into the eaves. It was warmer up here than she expected. The heat from the fire was trapped near the ceiling. _Owen should have slept up here_. She grasped hold of the I-bar support, dangled by her feet, folded her wings into her side and closed her eyes. Silent rest – peaceful. She lost herself along with the bats in restful meditation.

She hung up for there for who knows how long before a loud banging noise rose from the entrance, followed by voices. "It's easy to open. That means the big guy may not be here."

A young blond boy ran up the steps into the main mill. "Wow, this place is amazing!" His voice echoed through the chamber."

The second boy joined him on the platform. Abby recognized him – Javier. "Be careful up here. This is where the rattlesnake bit me."

"Cool. Do you think there is another one around?" The blond boy's voice reverberated in the chamber. He coughed; then repeated the sound. "Cool." Abby enjoyed watching the simple joy of discovery. It recalled her first day in the mill.

Javier jogged over to the first crucible, stepped up on the caster, and glanced in. "That's funny. She's not here."

"That's okay. This place looks awesome. I've never had a fort before, and this is like having a castle," the blond boy said. He ducked behind another one of the crucibles and pretended to fire an arrow from a bow.

"Were not here to play," said Javier, ever the angry impatient type. He scanned the room, searching for something. His eyes stopped on the completed cube sitting on the floor next to the mattress. "Look, she solved it!" he said. He ran over to the cube and lifted it from the floor. "Wow, this looks pretty tough." He began to twist the colors out of pattern.

Abby had been watching the two boys from the shadows, hoping they would stay for a short while, then leave. But she couldn't ignore the manipulation of Owen's gift. She cried "Stop," and glided in descent from the darkness.

Frightened by her sudden appearance, Javier jumped back and dropped the cube. It bounced across the mill floor with an echoing plastic thud. He withdrew the metal tube from his pocket and placed it to his lips. With each gasp his breathing steadily improved.

Abby landed next to the cube and collected it. She studied the pattern, made a few quick twists, and restored the cube whole. Then she regarded the wonder, rotating in front of her eyes. Once again … it was perfect.

Javier spoke up. "Abby. I'm glad you're here. I have a friend I want you to meet."

"This is not a zoo," Abby growled. "I'm not a creature for exhibit." She climbed up and perched on the edge of one of the crucibles. Unconsciously, she tucked her wings to her side. Other than wings and claws, her outward appearance was normal.

Toto the cat jumped on the floor and paced between Abby and the boys on some sort of protective patrol. She wasn't sure who he was protecting. He hissed at Javier which gave her a little heart that Toto was on her side. She had never liked that cat.

"I didn't mean that. I was hoping you could help him." Javier paused searching for the best way to ask his question. Finally, he just blurted it out. "Are you a vampire?"

Abby glared at him in anger. "No, I'm not that. You need to leave."

Javier furrowed his brow in wonder. "Are you a demon?" Then another idea came to him. "Are you an alien from another planet?"

"I'm none of those things."

Javier's friend watched the exchange with curiosity. His wide eyes and open mouth gave him a look of awe at Abby. The boy whispered his own question. "You're an angel, aren't you?"

The question surprised Abby. The demon guess was closer to the truth. "What makes you say that? My wings?" She spread them out broad, to show them off. She had no feathers.

"No. It's your eyes … they're so bright and blue. They glow." The boy grinned. He wasn't frightened by her appearance.

"I'm not an angel. I'm nothing." _Not anymore_.

"But you can live forever," Javier said.

"Not forever … just a very long time." Abby wondered why she was answering the questions. The blond boy seemed to have a peaceful soul … more like Owen than Javier. He intrigued her.

"Can you help us live for a very long time, too?"

"No." Javier's questions irritated her. It wasn't a conversation, but an interrogation. On another day she would have tried to will Owen home so that he would take care of the intruders. She still could not find a trace of his thoughts nearby.

"You can't or you won't?" Javier asked.

"I can't and I won't. Now you need to go."

Javier looked dejected. Like she had banished his only hope. Frustrated tears began to pool in the hollow of his eyes. He shook when he spoke, uncertain of the words to say. "Please," he said. "Please, there isn't much time. Lazarus is very sick. He'll die."

Abby studied the second boy. Despite the smile, his skin was pale and his eyes were bloodshot. He did look sick. "You all die," she said. "I can't even distinguish each drop anymore. I only see the river." Abby stared off into the distance. Especially in this city; she whispered, "So much death."

"Don't you care?" Javier screamed in anger. "Don't you care about anybody, but yourself?"

Along the top rims of the crucibles, Abby pace back and forth, like a cat. She stared into the ceiling, averting her eyes away from the boys. _Is_ _that what it was? A question of selfishness._ _Where is Owen?_

Lazarus said, "It's okay, Javier. I don't need her help. I'm ready." His voice was unhurried, calm. He was sad, but content.

The answer vexed Abby more than the angel question. This Lazarus had a special knowledge in his eyes. A view of life that strangers often assigned to her. Beneath the childish appearance, his young eyes held an ageless wisdom. "How can you be ready to die?" she wondered.

"The angel will come and carry me home … to a place without hunger and thirst. A land of warmth and peace," he said. "I thought you might be her."

"What makes you believe that?" Abby asked. How could he have so much confidence?

"I don't know." He shrugged his shoulders. "I just do."

The answer didn't satisfy Abby. How was Lazarus supposed to know what happens when his spirit left the earth? _Won't he be disappointed if it is just some big wasteland … if it is nothing at all? He's just a kid – that's not wisdom. It's a little kid's fantasy._ "Are you giving up?"

"No," Lazarus said. He turned to walk away. "Let's go, Javier. I want to see my mother."

"Wait. What about me?" Javier asked wiping away tears. "I want to be changed. Please. Sometimes I can't even breathe!"

Abby climbed back up the wall and into the shadows. She returned to the companionship of the bat family. Her silence should serve as a dismissal.

"I'm not going to give up," Javier said. "I just want to breathe." He lowered his voice and said almost to himself, "Is that too much to ask?"

When morning came, they were long gone. Abby found her way down to solitude in her bin. Huddled in her cocoon of blankets, she dreamed of Owen ... running free somewhere.

**Tony Sacco**

Tony cruised to the scene of the murder, but his thoughts remained with the boy he dropped off at the hospital._ "Is this some of your handiwork?" _Aileen's punishing language and look of contempt angered him._ "Is this some of your handiwork?" _Yes, it was.He wasn't proud of it_._ He knew the language "Excessive use of force." And it was excessive. The kid wasn't any trouble at all_._

She wasn't just a nurse at the hospital, she was his wife. Her accusatory words stung_. _When she lifted that kid's shirt on the floor of the Emergency Room …. Those deep, purplish bruises on his chest looked a lot worse than he expected. He hoped he hadn't been the cause of it all. _Shit,_ w_hat if he was a hemophiliac? _ And he kicked the boy like he was Javier's soccer ball … right in front of her. His first day back after suspension for the same infraction. _I can't arrest the kid – __it would mean my badge for sure. _He was luckyAileen was on duty tonight. She'll make sure he isn't implicated.

Tony dropped the kid at the hospital. Then he was saved by the radio when called to a murder scene. _Code 187 - Lamskin and West C Street_. He wished he would have been surprised to find a simple shooting or knifing, but he wasn't. The victim's throat was obliterated in a bloody explosion. Tony didn't have to be a detective or a medical examiner to identify a broken neck. The twisted angle of the victim's head confirmed it.

But Tony had no business analyzing the scene – he wasn't a detective. He pulled his cruiser up next to the shivering onlookers, radioed his arrival to dispatch, and pushed back the crowd. "Did anybody see anything?" _Of course not_. "Stick around. We'll need to get statements." As though that was going to happen on a night like tonight.

Tony removed a couple of yellow sawhorses from the trunk of his cruiser and a new roll of crime scene tape. He was still setting up when the Pueblo detectives arrived.

Detective John Petchy had been around the force for awhile. Tony thought he was pretty lazy in his investigations, but then Tony was pretty judgmental that way. Detective Dotty Towns was a new hire in the department. After being on assignment and then suspended, Tony barely knew her.

Towns began by snapping pictures of the scene while Petchy stopped to ask Tony for any information he had … which was next to nothing. "It looks like we're going to be here all night." Petchy said. "It'll be a couple of hours until forensics unit arrives. Damn Farr and Jonesy."

"Yeah, damn them for dying on us like that," Tony said.

Petchy started talking to the crowd, taking witness statements.

_It looks like I'm alone on tape protection duty tonight. Man, it's cold_. Jealous of Towns' steaming hot cup of coffee, he paced up and down along the tape to keep warm.

By the time the red sky appeared on the horizon, the coroner was hard at work analyzing the carcass. "Let's get this done," Petchy said. "Red sky in the morning, you know what that means ... blizzard warning."

"I've never seen anything like this before," the Denver coroner said studying the body. "I don't know what to make of it."

"I have," Tony mumbled. He glanced up at the smokestack towering over the city skyline wondering if there was a connection.

Unfortunately, the detective had been standing right next to him when he said it. "Really?" Petchy asked, "Where?"

"Lake Pueblo, before Christmas. Barleysmith and the others looked just like this guy."

"That's right. You were working with that Denver clown. What was his conclusion in that case?"

"Animal attack," Tony said. "But I don't think you should be so hasty. There might be something bigger going on here."

"Do you hear that guys?" Petchy said. "An animal attack… that makes sense. Go figure, right here within the city limits." He pointed to the body, "Let's get this thing packed up. There's nothing more here for us to do. I'm freezing my nuts off." Petchy chuckled at Towns' expression of disgust.

The medical examiner consented and retrieved the body bag. Tony decided he would encourage the casual story of an animal attack for Aileen's benefit. He didn't want to worry her. And then she would let the junkie kid go free.

It was late morning before he finally arrived home. He thought about stopping by his mother-in-law's to get Javier, but he was exhausted. Then he realized that school would already be started by now. Which was why he was so surprised to find Javier asleep in his bed.

He went into Javier's room and jiggled his shoulder. "Hey buddy, why aren't you in school?"

"It's Saturday, Tony. Besides, I'm not going to school anymore," Javier answered sleepily.

Tony was tempted to roust his disrespectful little ass out of bed, but he couldn't muster the energy after pulling a double shift on his first night back. "We'll talk about this later. Of course you are going back to school. Superbowl tomorrow. That should be fun."

**Owen**

Abby – she consumed his thoughts. Lying in the hospital bed, he had time to think. Abby needed more than he was offering. He left the homeless shelter with the firm conviction that he had to help her – much more than he had, until now. Love required more than childish hope, it required sacrifice.

Enjoying his new warm coat and hat that he collected from the shelter, Owen ran back until he crossed the river. Then he slowed to a walk and pondered his years with Abby. He had to admit that it was something of a miserable existence. His mistake had been trying to meet her half way. With Abby it was all or nothing – no compromises. She didn't value weakness, and he had been weak. If he loved her, and he thought he did, then it was time to be strong.

Once inside the mill, he found Abby sleeping in her bin. He reached over the edge and caressed her hair, brushing it away from her face. Then he leaned over and kissed her lightly on her soft, pale cheek. "I'm sorry I wasn't here last night. I had to sort out a few things. I still haven't left you." A small smile formed on her face while Owen replaced the blankets. He felt the warmth of her dream through the bond. Caressing her shoulder through the blankets, Owen whispered, "Thousands of scientists are searching for a cure for AIDS, but nobody is trying to help you. Perhaps I can do that."

Help. That's what she needed from Owen. But his childish wish of a miracle cure hadn't helped her. Not one bit.

As Owen walked back to his own mattress, he realized something was not quite right. Abby was peaceful and calm, as she should be after a kill. Then it dawned on him; _where was the blood from last night's victim_?

Abby hadn't eaten. She was going to need some more blood. Probably tonight.

He was too anxious to fall asleep – he slept solid last night. _In the mean time, I have some work to do around here_. He outlined a clear plan to follow – he steeled his conviction to do whatever was necessary to help her. "_I don't want to kill anymore_," she had begged him. This wasn't a random choice of fate; it was destiny – the end was already determined.

Owen moved the ladder to the center of the room. He checked the integrity of the rope he had found a few months earlier. It was old and dusty, but still pretty strong. It should work. A chain hoist with a large hook dangled from the center of the ceiling. Climbing the ladder, he was able to drape the rope through the center of that hook. The bat family may not like the interference, but that's the way it goes. He maneuvered one of the rolling crucibles over to the rope and tied one end around a handle.

By the time the set up was complete to Owen's satisfaction, he was ready to head out side. First demand – money. The twelve dollars in his pocket were not going to be sufficient to accomplish anything. With crow bar tucked into his coat sleeve he headed outside and braved the beginning of tonight's storm. Flakes fell in big, wet clumps. _No more half-assed measures. No compromises_. He spent the afternoon smashing windows of stores that were closed on Saturday. By the time night fell, he had collected an additional $414. The most he had since they moved to Pueblo. Plenty to support this evening's needs.

The next stop was the parking garage. He needed some narcotic encouragement to get him through the final step. The three levels down provided an easy respite from the evil winds. Snow drifts even found their way three levels below ground in the parking garage.

The gang of five was down there, all enjoying a smoke. The engines of commerce ran smoothly even in the snow. "I'm here for some more stuff," Owen said.

"Who the hell are you?" the one who called himself Pedro said.

"I was just here the other day." Then he realized why they may not recognize him. "I had a haircut and shaved my beard."

They nodded. "Oh, I remember, the gringo – a hundred dollars."

All five were hysterical over this exchange. "Are you overcharging me? Should this be more like ten dollars or something?"

"No, no – a hundred dollars is a fair price." The crowd of supporters laughed again. He may have to do some comparison shopping, but not tonight.

Owen pulled out a clean hundred dollar bill. At least these guys weren't going to worry where he got it. They exchanged it for the powder and syringe. They even helped him get started - heating the spoon and applying the tourniquet. Before long, his blood was on fire and Owen had his fill of pharmocologic courage. He focused on the next step of his plan: B Street by the train station.

With the driving blizzard, B Street was nearly empty. Owen was worried that the smart streetwalkers remained inside. He saw one down on the end of the street and called, "Hey!'

"Hey," she answered in return. "What are you doing out here on this freezing night?" She warmed him with an engaging smile.

Owen jogged over to her direction. "I wanted to ask you the same thing."

She leaned in close to him and teased the zipper on his jacket. "I'm looking for someone to take me someplace warm."

Owen melted into those huge blue eyes and gentle smile. She was like a princess out of a Disney cartoon. Her flickering eyelashes were enormous. They might be able to achieve flight. He wasn't sure if the friendliness was an act or not, but it made him much more confident. His recent grooming didn't hurt either. "I'd like to take you some place warm," he offered.

"What's your name?" she asked, wrapping her arm around his, pulling him close.

"Kenny," he answered.

"Hi Kenny, I'm Moira. Do you have sixty dollars on you?" Owen pulled out the money and handed it to her. "Thank you very much;" she rolled it along with other bills and placed it in her clutch. "Where are we headed?"

"Up San Pedro." They began walking in that direction. Moira buried next to him trying to keep warm. "Moira," Owen said, "That's a pretty name."

"Fate. From the Greek Myths. I have a love hate relationship with fate."

As they walked, Owen realized that Moira was a lot different than the other streetwalker he met. Destiny was overbearing and forceful. She made Owen feel clumsy and awkward. Worse, she seemed to enjoy his discomfort. Moira just struck him as naturally kind. She had a genuine laugh and engaged in pleasant conversation. He could imagine her as a friend. "Your perfume smells really nice," Owen said.

"Thanks," Moira answered with a beaming smile.

"How is it that you were the only one out?"

"Well that's a long story." Owen gave a look like he was interested in the answer. "Something happened on D Street awhile ago that scared away a lot of girls. Some moved onto Denver and others just quit altogether. I wasn't there, but I heard that Reverend Fletcher was attacked. And the rest of them are taking off on account of the weather. Which leaves just little old me and fate."

"Why aren't you taking tonight off?"

"I can't afford it. My father and brother lost their jobs. Mine is the only real income we have until the town recovers." They strolled through the fence into the parking lot of the steel mill. "Is this it? Is this where you are staying?"

"Yeah, is that all right?" Owen had to clear a path through the snow with his foot. A six inch drift blocked the door.

"I think it's brilliant. My father used to work here. I'll feel like I'm sticking it to his boss."

Talking to her was a mistake. He should never have become friendly. Regret is the enemy. They approached the side door. "Maybe we shouldn't do this," Owen said.

She smiled at his uncertainty. "Are you nervous?"

"Yeah, a little," Owen said.

"Is this your first time?"

"Uh," _How did she know? Oh she means _… "Yeah, it's my first time."

"That's okay. It's my first time, too."

"Really?"

Moira gave Owen a playful, secretive smile followed by a tender kiss on his bare cheek. It was warm and inviting. She reached up to pull the door open. Owen placed his hand to hold it shut.

For the first time today, confidence in his plan faltered. His chemical courage failed him. "I think I should just pass tonight." Owen said. The cold air dried out his mouth. He couldn't even moisten it with his tongue. His breathing became very shallow and his thinking wasn't very clear. He would try again tomorrow with one of the older girls. One who wasn't needed by her family.

"You already paid. Why don't we at least go in and warm up?" She placed her hand on his cheek, caressing it gently and leaned in for a long kiss. Her breath was warm and inviting. Owen relaxed for just a moment. She pulled away and embraced him with the blazing warmth of her eyes. Just a few inches from his face, she whispered. "We don't have to do anything. We can just talk if you want." She pulled open the door before Owen could stop her and headed up the stairs.

_Fate. _Owen hurried in behind her and found the tire iron where he placed it. Right at the top of the stairs she stopped for a second. "Wow, this is a big place when it's empty."

Those were the last words she said before Owen struck down hard with the tire iron. He kept telling himself this was for Abby … for Abby. He needed to find the courage; he needed to fight back the tears. His heart raced, he could barely breathe. He couldn't feel Abby's presence, but she had to be around here somewhere. Her sleeping bin was empty.

He grabbed Moira by the feet and hauled her over to the rope. After tying the rope around her ankles, he pushed on the crucible. _It's best if I don't think of her as a person … if I don't think of those blue eyes_. The movement of the crucible pulled the rope through the hook which lifted her body straight up in the air until her head was dangling a few feet off the ground. Her heavily starched brown hair stayed in placed like it was plastic. Her fingers swayed across the concrete. It was almost too easy. Owen depressed the foot break for the crucible. Moira was in position.

He placed the bucket under her head and grabbed his dull pocketknife. Blaise showed him how to do this with the dove all those months ago. He studied her throat, trying to picture her body as simply a container for blood – like those they stole from the blood bank. It wasn't working. He made the mistake of looking in her eyes. The lids were open and the pupils were dilated. Black surrounded by a thin corona of blue – like she was in pain. He placed is hands on her cheek and felt the softness of her lips. He leaned forward and kissed those lips. They were very warm, but unresponsive to his compassion. _I'm sorry_.

He started to panic. His breath pulsed in short, rapid bursts. His thoughts scattered like the wind. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. Colors danced in front of his eyes. He could barely see her. _Hurry up. What if she wakes up? What if she screams?_ Owen imagined them hearing her for miles - all the way to his mother's.

_You fuckin' coward_, Abby had said. It was no wonder she already forgotten him. He had done nothing for her – not the important things.

He focused on just the recess of Moira's neck, next the trachea, trying to imagine there was nothing else around it. Merely a vessel of food for Abby – a jar, a pigeon. He held his breath, grabbed the knife in both hands, and closed his eyes. He couldn't watch. With a heavy thrust he pushed. There was almost no resistance. When he opened his eyes, Moira was swinging back and forth like a pendulum with only a thin scratch on her neck. _Dammit_.

_Fate – this could be fate telling me to let her go. I'm sure there won't be any trouble. She would probably even like me_. Owen knew these were idle thoughts. Moira would go straight to the police, _and she knows where we live_. With Abby determined to remain in Pueblo, there was only one real option. _I have no choice. None._

His hands trembled so hard, he dropped the knife. He reached down to pick it up and reestablished his footing. This time he placed his left hand behind her neck and held her steady before he positioned the knife. Shaking with despondency, he could barely hold the knife in place. His heartbeat pounded in his neck so loud, he heard it like a bass drum and nothing else. _Come on you fuckin' coward, get it together – no compromises._ He closed his eyes, squeezing tears onto his lashes, and took a deep breath. He felt the skin stretch as the blade tried to go in.

For a moment he was worried that the knife wasn't sharp enough. Then what would he do? He changed the angle of the blade. This time the skin gave way with the thrust. Owen was shaking from anxiety. He kept his eyes squeezed shut – levees holding back the flood of tears. He heard a few drips fall into the plastic bucket with a "tink ...tink...tink." He worked the knife around to widen the hole and then withdrew it completely.

Moira's life flowed out like a raging river taking Owen's grace of humanity with it. He dropped the knife and tried to plug it with his fingers. _She's not dead, yet_. It sprayed all over his face and arms before a steady flow ran downward. "Uunnggh," an involuntary, feral growl escaped through his clenched teeth. He gagged from the stench. Fought back the urge to vomit.

Owen had to open his eyes to make sure the bucket was in the right spot. Blood ran down her hair into the bucket. Some of the blood missed and splattered onto the concrete. He moved it center the stream. The sticky, viscous fluid streamed over his arms and dripped from his hands. "Uuaah!" he groaned completely detached from the body swaying beside him.

"No!" From the ceiling he heard a deep, loud, "Owen what are you doing?" She glided down from the ceiling and with her entire force she pushed Owen away. "I told you to leave. You need to go!" It was the wildest he had ever seen her. Her eyes burned bright red fury; her skin was boiling so hard it was flaking; her hair fell out in clumps.

Owen looked down at his arms once again and completely lost all sense of stability and reason. He raced out of the steel mill as fast as had ever run before. He flew down the steps in one leap and out the door. Snow swirled all around him. _My hands are covered in blood! _ He couldn't even see where he was headed. Yet he kept running. He stumbled over the seven lanes of train tracks before he reached the concrete river bank.

He slid down the sloped concrete into the frigid water. He tried to swim across, but he didn't know how. He started to sink. Shivering violently, he realized that the water was only a few feet deep. He put his feet down and raised his arms. Blood rained down from them. _It's from the river. My God, the entire river is blood!_ He ran across the river bed, dragging the weight of his soaking jeans. Within moments he scaled the slope of land. Exhausted, freezing, he laid down with his head against the base of a gnarled tree with his body in a bed of sweet, cinnamon-scented flower stalks.

The river rushed by on all sides. Trapped on an island, he wasn't even completely across the river. The tree smelled like the inside of Abby's old chest. The one lost so long ago. It was a comfortable smell. The shivering slowly died down and Owen grew tired. He spared a thought to wonder what it would be like to die here.

He felt a hand reach across his shoulder and turn him over. _Stop, I'm trying to sleep_. He saw a kind face with twinkling eyes and a beard staring down at him. "Are you an angel?" Owen mumbled.

"No," the angel laughed. His breath was smoke – he was on fire. "I hardly recognized you without your beard. It's a good thing we heard you." Then he yelled over to the other side of the river. "It's Owen. I'm going to bring him over."

Owen collapsed in the warm embrace of the angel's arms, and the angel carried him the rest of the way across.


	28. Chapter 28

Note: Chapters 28, 29, & 30 were once Chapter 16

Chapter 28

Sands of Time

**Owen**

"Is he dead?" a child's voice asked. Owen felt something pushing into his cheeks – a little kid's fingers. Owen thought this might be death; maybe that was just wishful thinking.

"I don't think so, sweetie," said another, more motherly voice. "Don't push on his face like that." His blankets rustled allowing a cold draft to intrude onto his bare skin. "Help me replace these hot water bottles."

"I think he's dead," the child's voice said again with another push on his cheek.

Wracked with pain, Owen lay on a soft, comfortable bed smelling of vomit and feces; he didn't know where he was or how he got there. A locomotive screamed through his head, vexing him with waves of uncertain lucidity, but at least he had a pillow to rest on. He felt the presence of several people surrounding him. "Will he be okay?" A familiar male voice spoke. _Blaise_?

"I hope so. He seems to be improving. You should have taken him to the hospital."

The male voice answered, "We don't much like hospitals."

He felt a child's finger probe his eyelid. For a moment, light flooded Owen's vision. "Look, it's all red," followed by giggles. "That was so awesome! I saw his eyeball move."

"Caleb, cut that out."

Owen felt intense pressure building in his arm. He thought he might have had a blood clot or swelling. He was too numb to be bothered; then cold metal pressed into the inside of his elbow. Air escaping from the bladder signaled the recovery of sensation to his arm. "80 over 60 it's getting better. Lazarus, why don't you take his temperature?"

"How do I do that?"

"You stick it in his butt," a little boy snickered at his answer.

"Eww! That's gross."

"Just place the thermometer in armpit, and hold his arm gently at his side," the motherly voice answered.

The youngest voice said, "He smells funny."

When the child rustled his blankets to place the thermometer, Owen heard a sharp intake of breath. A different male voice than before spoke, "Look at all them bruises. Do you think somebody has beaten him?"

_I don't need any help_, Owen thought. _I beat myself_.

Owen let out a loud groan and rolled over onto his good side. He heard the tinkling of breaking glass as the thermometer shattered. Spit drooled down on his cheek, but he didn't care. Consciousness slowly slipped away.

**Abby**

She missed him more than she dared. Immersed in the misery of solitude, Abby cast her thoughts out, trying to sense his presence. An island, alone in the turbulent confusion of the world, she couldn't find him anywhere. Owen found some way to escape.

She missed the prattling discussions of nothing. Conversations which seemed so meaningful at the time, in reflection, appear mind-numbingly banal. It wasn't even talking that she longed for … it was his companionship, his compassion, his eyes dancing in joy while she rambled about the stars or shared a story he was excited about.

She inhaled the stale mill air, to absorb the last essence of Owen's presence … to retain a small figment of awareness.

Through the decades, Abby's followers evolved their own methods to procure blood. They did it for her, not because she asked them, but because they wanted to feel useful … to help. Abby could dissociate the nourishment from the victims. They provided blood – not bodies. Some honeyed, some bitter, but it sustained her humanity without Abby ever having to consider the source. Victims became what her uncle had always claimed – livestock. One of his ideas she chose to believe – not because it was true, but because it made her perseverance easier to justify … easier to endure.

Owen was almost mystically different. He helped her as best he could while resisting the degeneration into atrocity. She was enchanted by his beguiling innocence. For years, she hoped … she prayed that Owen would begin to develop the proper habits – all the while wondering if it was necessary.

Until now. Pushing him away incited his passion. When it was finally no longer necessary, when she no longer needed or wanted it, somehow she forced Owen's depravity. _I failed to __sense his thoughts … know what he was doing … stop his hasty actions until the overpowering urge swept me along with the coppery stink of blood._ _He wasn't supposed to bring the body here – the sweet, stupid idiot_. But her heart wasn't in the derision; it was her fault. She left the putrid corpse hanging as a reminder of her folly.

On all fours, with wings extended, Abby crawled aimlessly around the darkened, lonely mill. Sounds, the random noises of water dripping or wind whistling, rang hollow without Owen around. He was finally gone; this time for certain. She devoured six years of his life. Letting him go was the most difficult thing she had ever done. But letting him go wasn't enough. She had to force him out.

_I forget you now_. It was brutal to even think about let alone say. Hurt and pain reflected in his eyes and thoughts.

A course she never considered with her previous allies. As much as it pained her, Javier was right. She had been selfish; selfish for wanting Owen to stay. It cost him everything. Owen wasn't just some helper; he had become her friend. Even more than a friend - someone crucial to her. _How did he ever gain this power over me?_

He needed to be gone and live, rather than stay and die. Life with Abby was slowly killing him.

Her joyful memories of better times were clouded by the stench of the empty vessel suspended beneath the chain hoist. Wind buckled the roof into motion causing the carcass to swing like a pendulum; the bucket from which she drank all of the blood rested beneath it. The blood tasted delicious, but now the congealed dregs rankled her.

Flexing her talons, Abby marveled at the strength within the bony structure. She didn't even bother to retract her wings or restore her facial features. Imbued with solemn emptiness, Abby ascended to the rafters, and, dangling upside down, she closed her eyes. She allowed her attachment to humanity drift away.

Before long she swayed in concert with the rotten carcass swinging beneath her. Unaware how long she hung from the roof, Abby allowed time to wither. She wanted to end it all; just once walk out into the sunlight and experience a moment of its warmth. Instead, she was compelled by a desire to remain here and wait. In a daze, she closed her mind to the passage of time and hibernated with the bats. With Owen gone, her nightmares returned.

"_Gaspar, keep him away from Whiskers," Abby screamed with the mighty fury of an eleven year old girl._

_Abby's father once brought home a baby muskrat he caught in a trap. The wounded rodent was too small to use for a pelt. She nursed him back to health and raised him as a pet. Of course, Abby's older brother chanced upon a stray black cat as retaliation for his sister's joy. That's how she saw it, anyway._

_Midnight, the cat, enjoyed roughhousing with the rodent. He tossed and bounced him about in careless play. Gaspar enjoyed the distraction from New France's cold winter and chuckled at the sight of the predatory dance along with his friends. "He's just having a good time. Let him play," he said to his baby sister._

_Abby intervened, rescuing the rodent from the paws of the cat. "Look. He's bleeding. I'm telling Papa!"_

_Abby ran into their rustic home, cradling the wounded muskrat in her arms, to find her father cleaning his musket. "Papa, Whiskers is hurt."_

_Her father sighed and rested the barrel of his disassembled rifle against the wall, "Let me take a look."_

_He laid out his handkerchief on the table and placed Whiskers on top. Her pet's eyes were closed and his front paws trembled. Blood flowed from his abdomen, staining the linen. "I think this might be it for our poor little Whiskers. He's had a good life – better than most. Why don't you run along? I'll lay him to rest in the back yard."_

_In tears, Abby fled to the woods without a care for her pretty, white dress – angry at her brother for that awful cat, angry at her father for not being able to save Whiskers, and angry at the British for forcing them to flee their secure home in Louisburg. She remained there for hours, long after her tears dried, until she heard her mother calling her for dinner._

_Inside the house, she sat quietly in the candlelit kitchen with her family while her father said the grace. Then, she ate her dinner in numb withdrawal. Gaspar acted like nothing had happened, as though Whisker's death was nothing out of the ordinary. This may seem common for a trapper's family, where animals were often killed – but not pets; not Whiskers._

_After a few minutes eating in silence, Abby was struck by her father's strange clothes. Something happened while she was mourning in the woods. "Why are you dressed as a priest?" she asked._

_Her father set down his fork and rubbed his hands. "The British are trying to capture your uncle. I'm taking his place for awhile to mislead them. I shan't be away long," he answered._

"_Who will care for us?" Abby wondered._

_Her parents shared one of those glances adults exchange when they don't want to answer an uncomfortable silence. Oblivious to the conversation, Gaspar saved his parents from a response by saying, "This is a great dinner, Mama. Where'd you find meat this time of year?"_

_A cold chill fell over Abby. She dropped her fork in disgust, knocked over her chair and ran out of the kitchen into the darkened living room. She almost ran over a man, casually reading a book. "Excuse me, Uncle," said with a curtsy. "I didn't see you there." She was shaking from anger at her parents, but she knew better than to be impolite with her uncle. He was an important man, a powerful figure._

_Her uncle placed his book on the table and rose from his chair. "Abigail, my precious little child," he said he said with a wry smile. "I look forward to spending some time with you in your father's absence. Perhaps I'll teach you how to favor the predator over the prey ... the cat over the rat."_

"_Is that why you're sending my father out?" Abby asked, "So that he can be the prey?" Perhaps impoliteness was overdue._

"_Such spirit … such insolence from a tiny thing." Her uncle leaned down so that his face was just a few inches from hers and whispered so that her parents in the kitchen couldn't over hear. "You were always my favorite. You are stronger than you believe. Much more than your brother." He took a deep breath, inhaling her aroma. "So sweet. I can't wait to taste you."_

_The comment made no sense. "Taste me?" she said. "Why don't you just have some stew?"_

_Her uncle tilted his head and kissed her squarely on the lips. The kiss was long with an uncomfortable familiarity to his desire. Abby endured the kiss, but she sensed her mother standing in the door frame, simmering in anger._

_Her uncle withdrew and said, "Now run along my black kitten. We'll have more time to share after your father is gone."_

_Her father left that evening, ensuring the family that he would be gone for a few months at most. He took the bloody handkerchief along with his musket and his pack. It was the last moment Abby saw her father. Another goodbye._

So subdued and listless from the dream, Abby almost missed the opening door with the figure standing on the threshold. Animated by the city lights, a long shadow, cast from centuries past, flooded up the stairs and across the floor of the mill. He paused for a moment to regain his bearing, conveying the ubiquitous presence of seething malevolence.

"Bonne nuit, moi chaton noir," the gravelly voice bellowed from the entrance. "I have missed you. Aren't you going to welcome me into your home?"

**Owen**

"_Owen, have you been here the entire time?" His mother asked the resentful boy crouched behind the stair slats._

"_Mother, don't pay any attention to the man. He is trying to destroy our family," Owen pleaded of his mother._

_Owen ran down the stairs and pounded on the back of the black shirt. "Go away and never come back. You're evil. You're supposed to keep families together."_

_His mother grabbed his arm to stop the assault. "He's not evil. He's a priest," she said._

_The priest turned around and stuttered, trying to find the right words, "Sometimes there are no good choices – only wrong ones. You'll understand when you're older." Owen hated that kind of answer. When you're older …_

_After the evil man left their home, his mother squeezed Owen against her breast, trying to hold her family together. "I know. We'll try to hang on." He could barely remember what his mother looked like. They couldn't hold on. The current was too strong._

_Owen laid the broken body into the frigid river while saying a short prayer. But the river wasn't flowing. With the dam blocked, the body floated in place. Owen took his knife and shoved it into the wall, working away the loose mortar. Finally, a trickle flowed from the small hole; then the dam burst, spraying him with red water and flooding the river with blood. "I killed her." Owen mourned for his loss. "I killed the river of life."_

_He shoved the body into the center of the stream and allowed the swift current to pull it away. The river began to boil and turn green from corruption oozing out of the corpse. Owen had to hang onto a tree root while the swirling maelstrom of bloody water tried to pull him under. He couldn't hang on and he couldn't swim. "Help me," he cried to the three magi standing on the river bank with their camels._

_But they ignored him. Instead the magi argued over the star of Bethlehem as it shined in the sky. "Follow the stars," they said. "Which one?" another asked. _

_While they were arguing a serpent slithered onto the black canvas of the sky and swallowed the brilliant star of Bethlehem along with the beautiful princess. "Goodbye, Owen," the constellation cried._

_To his dismay hands, thousands of hands knocked him over and dragged him along with the current. "Is this your first time?" The sacrificial victim asked with an amused smile. Owen was embarrassed by the question. "Is this your first time to die?"_

_Dragged underwater by the tight grip of the thousand victims, he heard a voice speaking just the same. "We're going to have a little contest. Stay underwater for three minutes. If you can't, I take out your eye. An eye for an ear. Got it?"_

_Owen "got it" only too well._

_Before the three minutes were up the current spat him out on the sandy shores of a dry, desert wasteland. White sand fell from the sky. Owen gasped, sucking in the precious, life giving air. _

_I can't breathe!_

_A dusty green lizard with mustard colored stripes sat on the shoreline. He was fishing for cans. "What are you running from?" the lizard asked. "Everybody is running from something."_

"_I'm running from my own shadow. I wear it on my skin," Owen said. A mottled, purple shadow was stapled to his torso. Water dripped off his skin and boiled on the hot sand. "And I will keep running until I can't run any farther."_

_As fast as he could, Owen ran from the tiny, terrifying lizard. Day turned into night and night turned into day. For forty days he ran, until he couldn't bear to run any further. Exhausted he collapsed to the ground. His skin was cold and clammy. So hot, he trembled uncontrollably; his bones rattled. With a powerful hunger he tried to eat a handful of the white sand. But it was bitter; he coughed and spit it out._

_A black dove circled the skies above him, waiting for him to die. "Why don't you eat that stone?" the dove asked._

_Owen pulled the stone to him and placed it to his lips. Biting down he tried to suck nourishment, but there was nothing there._

_The dove laughed at his frustration. "You stupid little girl, you can't get bread from a stone."_

"_Can I get blood from the stone?" Owen asked._

_The dove cackled even louder. "What do you want? Concentrated blood of a saint? You will have a better chance learning to fly."_

_Owen shoved himself up from the ground and raced away from the gibbering bird. He ran so fast that he left the colors of his clothes behind him. The skin of his cheeks fluttered and flapped in the wind. He raced even faster. So fast that he left his memories behind. He barely even noticed when he leaped off of the edge of the precipice – until he remembered that he didn't know how to fly._

_Owen plummeted toward the ground. He heard the wind cry, "No, no, no." His destiny lay before him and he welcomed it. Finally, he struck the water below him with a turbulent splash. He continued down; he sank deeper and deeper – until he remembered that he didn't know how to breathe._

_Owen scrambled trying to swim. It was no use, with each powerful stroke he sunk even further – until he remembered that he didn't know how to die._

_Several leagues under the water, he was greeted with a stench of chlorine. He found himself at the edge of the pool. He dragged himself out and gasped inhaling the blessed, fresh air. Hands pulled him from the pool. She was beautiful... an angel._

"_Owen … Owen Wheeler, what was your role in the deaths of these children in Los Alamos?" the police detective asked him as he slid a photo of a swimming pool in front of him. _

"_I couldn't breathe," Owen said._

"_The report indicated that you were there that night, before you disappeared," the detective continued, "Did you kill those boys? If you had anything to do with their deaths, you'll go to prison for the rest of your life."_

"_Freedom builds its own kind of prison," Owen said. "Ask Abbé Jean-Louis Le Loutre … he's a priest. They're all evil."_

_Owen chewed on his Now and Later candies. He buried empty wrappers in the snow beneath his seat in the interrogation room._

_The detective had an ugly birthmark on his cheek. He breathed out rings of smoke and drew another puff on his Marlboro. "I used to be just like you," he said._

_Another police officer paced along the wall. She was adorned with beautiful bodyart - that of a navy peacoat and tortoise shell eyeglasses. "Pray dear Paraclete, I think she's beautiful," Selkie said. She held a caged dove above her head and stared at it in wonder. This one was white. Candlelit shadows danced on the walls. Looking straight into Owen's eyes she asked, "Are you the vessel of grace?" Owen wasn't sure if she was asking him or the bird._

_She placed the cage on the table and demanded from Owen, "Choose … me or the bird. Choose … are you Owen or Kenny?"_

"_I can't," Owen said. "I always make the wrong choice. I hate fate."_

"_Doing nothing is a choice. She withdrew the dove from the cage, took a gentle hold around its wings, and brandished a dull pocketknife. "Embrace the angel of death." Selkie wiped her finger in the puddle of blood and placed it in her mouth. "Mmmm," she said licking her lips. "It tastes like poison. I guess sometimes there are no good choices."_

_The light in the interrogation room flickered. Owen saw his own image in the wall length mirror, crouching beneath the concrete wall of the Fourth Street Bridge, huddling in terror. Greg sat down next to him, breathing heavy, "Owen, have you been here the entire time? What was that thing?"_

_Escape lay just out of reach – a river's breadth away. "We just need to get across the water," Owen said. "It can't cross the river."_

"_Then, what the fuck are we doing underneath the bridge?" Greg asked. "Shouldn't we be on top?"_

_On Owen's other side, Blaise sat in isolation, desperately trying to depress an imaginary trigger. With a sudden awareness, he looked at Owen, "I can't help you. I have my own demons to fight." He stood up and bolted from the underpass._

_Owen followed, but Blaise was nowhere to be seen. He hastened around the bridge abutment and up to the roadway. A young girl strained to cross the bridge between despair and joy. Owen hurried to her side and lifted her in his arms. "You're going the wrong way," he said. She had a strange mark on her face. "Abby, what happened? How did an upside-down T become burned into your cheek?"_

"_It's not a T," she said. "I couldn't kill him. Please kill him for me. I can't bear the voices." Abby smiled through sleepy eyes and placed her hand on Owen's cheek. Sticky, sweet blood dribbled across her chin. "Owen, is it really you?" she asked. She caressed his cheek. "I miss you."_

Owen jolted awake from the disturbing dream. A sudden chill washed over him like the water of the river. _Abby was right here … she was right here in the room_. _Not in the room; outside the window._ He was lying on a mattress, underneath a blanket, surrounded by six tepid water bottles. Several other men were scattered around the sleeping quarters, snoring on their own mattresses. _Damn, I'm hungry. I wonder how long I've been asleep._

Owen was sure he heard Abby's thoughts from the window. He jumped out of bed, chilled by his nakedness, to take a peek. Every muscle in his body screeched with pain from the sudden thrill of activity. The windows were thick leaded glass having a pattern to obscure your vision. It was nighttime, but he could see little else. Abby wasn't there even though she felt so close in the dream. He was so sure that he felt her thoughts nearby. But she was on the wrong side of the river. She couldn't cross the bridge without someone's help. _ And who would help her?_

Shaking from withdrawal, Owen found his clothes lying next to his bed with all his belongings. The girl's photo from the old man in the alley and his baggie of rice had dried from his dunking in the river. Alongside them sat the vial of holy water and wooden handled bell. The money was gone. He dressed and shoved all his belongings into his pockets and set out to explore the shelter at night. He needed to take a piss and get something to eat.

Downstairs, he found a low lights burning in the cafeteria common room. The woman attended to her three sick children with the baby requiring most of her needs. The youngest boy said, "Hey, look, he's alive!"

The second boy said, "I guess he's risen from the dead."

"I think I'm still dead," Owen said with a groan. His head throbbed. "I'll know after I eat. Do you know where I can find some food?"

The youngest boy jumped off his chair, grabbed Owen by the hand, and dragged him over to cabinets and a refrigerator. "I'll show you," he said. "I'm Caleb. What's your name?"

Owen tried to remember the name he provided. The deceit was confusing. "I think its Owen."

"Hi, Owen. My brother's name is Lazarus." Owen waved half-heartedly to the new arrival at the pantry. He found a box of generic Oateo's, milk and a spoon. "Come sit with us," Caleb said.

Forcing himself to hold the bowl steady, Owen followed Caleb over to the table and sat down across from the woman feeding her baby a bottle of apple juice. He gave a friendly nod of his head, but she ignored him.

Distracted by the joys of youth, Caleb and Lazarus soon forgot their offer of hospitality while playing cowboys and Indians around the dark room. "Settle down," their mother implored. The baby pulled away from the juice bottle and convulsed with contagious laughter at the sight of her brothers' play.

Owen's hand quivered. The spoon made a tentative, unpredictable approach to his mouth. He found it easier to look away and think of something else. The woman was devoted to her child in every way – wiping spittle off her cheeks, rubbing her belly and enjoying her laughter. The baby consumed her thoughts and attention the way that Abby used to consume his. He relished the casual intimacy.

This close, Owen realized that the mother was much younger than he thought. Her wrinkled skin and sunken eyes suggested someone almost fifty, but she was younger, perhaps thirty. Her eyes and face looked familiar, "Do I know you?" Owen asked, startling the mother.

"I don't think so," she said and returned to her child.

Owen continued to study her features until she became uncomfortable under the scrutiny. _I've seen her before. I know it. Maybe she has relatives in Los Alamos._ Then he remembered the photograph. Owen removed it from his pocket and looked at the faded color wallet-sized photograph. Prepped for photo day, the pretty blond haired girl was Owen's age or a little younger. "It's you," he said.

"Where'd you get that?" she asked. The mother placed the bottle on the table and raised her baby to her shoulder.

Owen handed her the photograph and said, "I got it from an old homeless man. I thought she ... I thought you looked pretty."

She snickered, "At one time, maybe I did. I'm not surprised to hear he was destitute. I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," she said solemnly. "How's he doing?"

Owen remembered the bloody gash on the old man's temple, the body he dumped unceremoniously into the mill furnace. "He's dead," was his only answer.

She handed the photograph back to Owen. "I'm sorry to hear that. It would have been nice to speak to him before he left us," she said. "I guess he won the race."

"What do you want me to do with the photograph?"

"Keep it. Throw it out. I don't care. I can't even remember that innocent girl anymore." Lazarus stopped running in a fit of angry coughing. "Come on guys. Back to bed," she said. She turned to Owen, "We have showers." _Do I smell that bad?_

The echo from the closing door washed over the room before it drifted back out sea. Owen remained alone in the silence, and he could barely stand the company. Every emotion had left him. Hope had drained into that bucket. Where was he to go now? The loss of Abby affected him more than he expected. He felt a powerful emptiness and longing. He closed his eyes and his thoughts lingered on Abby. He missed her more than he dared.

**Abby**

"Bonsoir, L'oncle," Abby said from her roost among the bats. "Je vous ai manqués, trop." (_Good evening, Uncle. I have missed you, too._) He wore his priestly clothes and black traveling robe. Abby tried to resist the force of her uncle's will, but something inside of her welcomed his arrival. He understood her desires in a way that nobody else could … not even Owen. _How could Owen truly understand me?_ Many times she felt the disgust radiating through the bond. _He can't hide it_.

Perching on the edge of a desire to reject her uncle, she relented. "Vous pouvez vener en." (Y_ou can come in._)

"Thank you, Abigail. How gracious of you."

Having no trouble adjusting to the darkness, Jean-Louis wandered around the mill making comments on the surroundings. "This building is magnificent, like the castles of my native France. The filth is disgraceful." Disappointed, he indicated to the walls, "Nice artwork. You know you can never hide from me for long."

_Long enough_, Abby thought.

He glanced up at the body dangling from the ceiling. "I'm surprised you don't have an army of servants by now to cleanse your home." All the while, Abby hung quietly from her roost among the bats.

After walking around for a few minutes, Jean-Louis stopped and stared into the shadows of the ceiling. "Where is my greeting, chaton noir? I have been gone for a hundred years."

Abby floated down to her uncle. Upon landing, she folded her wings into her side and approached him. She curtsied once and looked into the covetous eyes underneath the hood of his traveling cloak. "Je t'aime, L'oncle."

He grabbed her chin and held it tight in his hand. "Your human form, child." Her wings retracted into her neck, her teeth straightened, and her skin became smooth and perfect. She looked into his eyes – they were solid white. "Beautiful … you were always so beautiful. Why would anyone want this to change … to grow old … to wither and die?"

Jean-Louis reached behind Abby's neck and dragged her to him. It was a cold, forceful kiss of power and lust, not a passionate one. His tongue slithered back and forth like a snake. Tempted to bite down, she resisted. _Not now_. Abby allowed her thoughts to drift to Owen. _Did I ever enjoy my uncle's touch?_ Yes, she did - at one time. But that was a long time ago.

Her uncle pulled away from the kiss. "Abigail, you've been naughty lately, haven't you? You tasted infant." He licked his lips, enjoying the sensation. "African, if I'm not mistaken. Food fit for the gods." He shuddered in pleasure.

After he spoke, Abby spit a slimy mix of pus and blood into his decaying face. "You have no power over me," she said.

With a chuckle her uncle wiped off of the residue and shook it on the ground. "Enough of that for now. We can play later. First we must address the ..." He waved his hands around in the general direction of the body hanging from the chain hoist. "... mephitis. It's detestable." He walked around the room to the area behind the furthest of the row of crucibles. "Because of that putrescence, I almost missed the vermin." He reached behind the last crucible and pulled out a wiggling child.

"Javier," Abby said with disappointment. "Laissez-le tranquille. S'il vous plaît, mon oncle. C'est juste un enfant." (_Leave him alone. Please uncle. He's just a child._)

"I'm not afraid," Javier yelled while kicking from a foot off of the floor. "I want to be just like you. Can you help me?"

"Abigail, you always did keep the cutest pets. I think I like this one."

"Non. Mon oncle," Abby begged, but she knew it was a waste of breath.

Jean-Louis turned Javier. "You want to stay? You wish to become immortal?" Javier nodded eagerly. "Then expurgate the chaos."

Javier looked quizzically toward Abby. "Clean up," she said.

"Is that person dead?" Javier pointed to the carcass hanging from the hoist.

"Moi chaton noir, he is so cute," Jean-Louis said. "I think I could just eat him up."


	29. Chapter 29

Note: Chapters 28, 29 & 30 were once Chapter 16

**Chapter 29**

**Regrets**

**Owen**

Each morning, Owen suffered his self-imposed exile to the far corner table while he enjoyed the mundane morning breakfast of grits and butter. It tasted like sand. He drank coffee along with it; he hated the flavor, but the bitterness suited his mood.

Each night he returned to the fitful sleep in the men's quarters. He could barely tolerate the stink, but the mattress only had two sides. Often his tremors kept him awake. When he slept, his dreams wandered to memories of Abby. He sometimes woke to the feeling that she was there, right outside the window. When he turned to look, he never saw her. The drugs slowly worked their way out of his system. He found himself craving them more each day. But he didn't have the money or the will to seek them out.

One morning, his breakfast isolation was broken by Gabriella parading through the unlocked front door with a smile and rosy cheeks. She was enjoying the cold more than Owen. "How'd you sleep last night, Owen? Was it peaceful?" Burdened with Gabriella's books and supplies, Billy, the pack horse, followed her through.

"Fine," Owen answered with his face down in his bowl trying to avoid conversation. "Where's the Clark family? I don't see them anymore."

"Both Lazarus and Isabel's condition started to deteriorate," Gabriella answered. "They'll receive better care at the hospice."

Billy and Gabriella each grabbed a bowl and joined Owen at the table. They sat close together and ate one handed with their fingers interlaced beneath the table. _Get a room; or at least your own table._

Father Erasmus bound into the room and joined the three of them at the same table with his coffee. He was far too gleeful. "Do any of you know what day it is?"

"The day after yesterday," Owen answered fairly confident with his solution.

"Saturday?" Billy said.

"It's not just any Saturday," Gabriella answered. "It's the second Saturday of the month. And that means youth group! What are we doing this weekend, Padre?"

Owen wondered, _which month_?

"I thought we'd go canoeing on the river." Father Erasmus said.

It seemed awfully cold to brave the river, "I think I'll pass."

"Nonsense," Father Erasmus said. "You need to get outside and enjoy the fresh air."

"Maybe I will walk around the city and … and...," Owen said. He couldn't really think of anything he needed to do in the city, except maybe something illegal. He didn't think he should share that with this group.

"Come on, Owen," Billy said, "If I have to go, then you should go."

"I can't go," Owen insisted. "I don't even know how to swim."

"That's no excuse," Erasmus said. "We have life preservers."

Owen could not think of a valid reason for declining. So an hour later, he found himself sitting in the front of a yellow bus with nearly a dozen screaming preteen kids singing songs. _So this is hell. Isolated on a school bus – how unusual_. He wished he had a book to read.

Gabriella sat down in the seat next to him for a moment, "Why don't you join in the song Owen? You should know it – Kumbaya."

Owen answered with a pain-stricken look of disgust._ What does that even mean? It can't be a real word_.

His sour spirit didn't stop the rest of the children from enjoying a good time. They droned on all the way to the unloading bank just east of the Lake Pueblo dam. Owen rode in the same canoe with Father Erasmus with whom he enjoyed a tolerable silence down the Arkansas. It was better than riding with one of the lively tweenagers. Gabriella and Billy drove the bus to the pickup spot. After which, they would meet them on the island with more supplies.

The expedition down the Arkansas was uneventful and peaceful. Owen made casual strokes of his paddle while enjoying the snowy scenery surrounding the river. For an hour or more they glided past the trees and ice covered reservoirs lining the river. He only vomited once. It made an interesting pattern in the flow of the river. Children skated on the frozen retention ponds. The river water was cold, but the flow kept ice from forming. Passing the trees and reservoirs Owen noticed one constant – there were no fish in the river or birds in the trees. Death was everywhere. Even the oaks and maples lining the river were leafless.

Finally, they turned south and the city of Pueblo lay before them. They beached their canoes on an island within sight of the Fourth Street Bridge. One solitary tree lorded over the island – an evergreen mocking the lifeless river. _Greg once fished for aluminum cans here._

When they arrived at the island, Gabriella and Billy were already unloading the vital supplies such as hotdogs and marshmallows. A massive smokestack dominated the skyline. He had to wonder how she was doing; how much happier she was without him. Her thoughts were full of anger and hatred. The kids mostly ignored him in their self-centered conversations; those that didn't ignore him, just stared.

Owen did not belong in this world. A zoo animal, being observed by children who were more concerned about the color of their cotton candy than the troubles the exhibits face in the wild. The careless, casual cacophony of conversation was from a different reality altogether. Becky loved Shelly's new hair cut. Highlights made it shine. Bruce got a cool new video game. Brenda was soooo worried about her math test. She was sure she failed it, but she got a "B". Owen sat on a big rock on the other end of the island and skipped stones into the water.

His isolation did not go unnoticed. "Most everybody else seems to be happy," Erasmus said. "You know, Owen. You can choose to rejoin the rest of society whenever you want. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

Owen scoffed. "What a joke. Do they teach you that at priest school? I guess I must be fuckin' Hercules by now."

Erasmus paused trying to collect his thoughts. He assaulted Owen from a different flank. "You see that tree," Erasmus said, pointing out the sole, gnarled cedar tree landmark of the island. "I planted that tree when I was first assigned to Pueblo. A lot of people faced despair in this town, while others lived their lives oblivious to their suffering. The narrow slip of land between despair and joy is hope. A cedar tree is the perfect symbol. That's why they use it to line hope chests." Erasmus shrugged at his idealism. "It's just a symbol, but I thought it was a good place to start."

"I thought they used it because of the smell," Owen said. "This one," he pointed to the contorted tree, "isn't doing so well. It doesn't give me much hope."

"This may not have been the best place to plant a cedar tree," Erasmus chuckled. "On the coldest nights of winter, the sap freezes driving cracks into the bark. Then new sap flows from the crevices to coat the outside. It makes for a twisted symbol of hope, but I think life is like that sometimes. When one path isn't working, we break out and find a new one."

The kids were roasting marshmallows over the fire. One lifted up a flaming torch. "I like mine well done," he said. Everybody laughed.

"That's the way to sterilize it," another one joked. "Too bad, the marshmallow didn't survive."

Owen tossed another rock in the river. "I think you're stretching that meaning of the symbol."

Erasmus chuckled, "Maybe." Father Erasmus crouched down next to Owen and sifted through the frozen sand. "When I was a child," he continued. This priest just wouldn't take the hint; he refused to stop talking. "When I was young, my father told me that 'You can't throw a rock in the same river twice.'" The priest picked up a stone and tossed it in the water with on 'plink' it settled to the bottom.

"I don't even know what that means." Owen picked up another stone and tossed it at a very shallow angle to show up the priest. Not bad … three skips.

He noticed an orange soda can floating down the river. _Damn, that's five cents wasted_.

"The river is constantly changing. You only have one opportunity at certain key moments in your life. But then you move on. The world shifts around you."

This sounds like something he had heard once before. "You are the sum of the choices you make, and the choices made for you." Owen said. "I hate that idea … I hate fate. I'm not the sum of anything. I'm nothing. In fact, I'm less than nothing."

"That's the way some people look at it," Erasmus said. "Try to look at it the other way around. You are not the sum of the choices you made – you are your next choice. Right now that is all you are. You can't do anything about the choices that have already come and gone. You can only worry a little about the choices that are a long way down the road. But your next choice … how you face it … how you handle it … that is who you are."

Erasmus picked up a rock and tossed it into the river. It caught the ripple of a wave just right and bounced high. It bounced several times before it finally lost that momentum. "Four," Erasmus said with a triumphant raise of his fists. "Top that."

Owen searched around for a nice flat rock and nestled it into his forefinger. He leaned down low and tossed it along the river, but the rock didn't hit squarely … it didn't skip at all. "This is a stupid game and that is just another stupid saying. This river is dead. I can throw rocks in this same river all day long."

"Is that what you think? There aren't any fish in the river, so it is dead." Erasmus pointed to the water rushing and receding on the bank. "This river is very much alive. It rises and falls with the seasons." He pointed to the concrete, man-made bank. "We try to contain it ... to control it, but those walls aren't going to last forever. Someday even that dam by the lake will be gone. The river is going to carve a new path. It may even bring some fish along with it."

Owen looked into the river and for the first time noticed the rush of water cross the bridge stanchions. This river wasn't merely alive. It chafed at the boundaries presented to it … it was angry. He picked up another stone and tossed it. "Five!" he said. _Success_! For a moment … a brief second ... he felt a little bit of pride in his rock skipping abilities.

The instant drifted away when he overheard Gabriella's angry outburst from the noisy crowd of children. "Are you sure it's him?"

"With his beard growing back, I'm sure," Billy whispered, but it was loud enough for Owen to hear. "It's all right Gabriella, don't worry about it."

Still celebrating the five skips, Father Erasmus didn't seem to notice the growing discord. Owen felt like running, but he had nowhere to go.

Gabriella stomped over armed with a four foot branch of flotsam. "Are you Kenny?" she demanded. "Did you assault Billy?" she waved the stick in the air with a menacing look.

"What is this about, Gabriella?" Erasmus demanded.

At the same time Billy said feebly, "Gabriella, forget about it."

"Well are you?" she demanded.

Owen crouched down in preparation for the blow. "What are you going to do with that stick?" Owen asked. Uncertain of how to react, the younger children stood around stupefied. Quiet for the first time today.

"I don't know. I may have to defend myself," Gabriella said. "Are you Kenny?"

"I'll tell you what you are going to do," Kenny said. His blood boiled in frustration with the accusation. "You're going to give me that stick and I'm going to ram it up your fuckin' ass. Then you're going swimming."

"Owen, that's uncalled for. You apologize," Erasmus said. "What is this about, Gabriella?"

"He shattered Billy's hearing … destroyed his future," Gabriella said. She was shaking. "He should go to jail. He shouldn't be allowed to get away with this." Completely unprepared for the conflict, the rest of the children were stunned at the anger.

Owen anticipated the coming swing. He was sure he could catch the stick in mid-motion and recover it for his own use. But the staff just remained, suspended in the air. Everyone was staring, watching, anxious for the outcome – expecting the priest to intercede. Erasmus broke the silence, "Is this true, Owen?"

In frustration Owen fell to his knees. "What are you waiting for? Hit me. I mugged him," he commanded. Gabriella swung the branch at Owen's head with very little conviction. Owen barely noticed the blow. "That's all you fuckin' got! Do it again. I deserve it." He looked up at the sky and presented his face to her. "Better yet, hit me in the eye. An eye for an ear, right?"

Goaded into action, Gabriella reached way back with both hands to gain momentum for a second, more forceful swing. Tears streamed down her cheeks. The air was still with the ache of silence. Even the birds that weren't roosting in the dead trees were quiet. At its highest arc, Billy grabbed the stick and ripped it away from her. "I told you to let it rest," Billy said. "It wasn't his fault." Billy tossed the stick into the river.

"How can it be anything other than his fault?" Gabriella stormed off in anger at the intervention.

With the diffusion of the tension, Erasmus knelt down next to Owen and held him. The rest of the children silently watched the altercation in fear and worry. Billy tried to corral them back to their food, but the casual conversation was over. One boy mumbled a tasteless joke about refuse, but nobody responded.

"What happened, Owen?" Father Erasmus asked.

Through sobs of anger and frustration, Owen said, "We can't escape the choices we've made. The river is dead. I killed her."

Father Erasmus pulled him close and kissed Owen on the forehead with compassion. It didn't help. Erasmus, and those like him, had destroyed his family. Owen didn't think he could ever forgive that.

**Abby**

Javier regained consciousness. He dangled from a rope cinched around his waist. His arms were tied behind his back. Abby and her uncle roosted on the inner walls of the furnace, just above Javier. The rope that had once been used to hang Owen's prey was now lashed to the X-shaped cross bar at the very top of the long shaft.

Cleaning up the mill to Jean-Louis' satisfaction required several days of hard work. Abby showed Javier how to work mechanical items, such as how to move the crucibles and how to manipulate the furnace door. She also showed him where the cleaning supplies were located and where to dispose of the body. Scrubbing the diagrams on the walls bleached Javier's hands, but she was forbidden to help his with his labor. Work was for livestock.

The very last step, Javier handed the rope to her uncle hoping that it would purchase his admission to the immortal club. Jean-Louis thanked him for his labor and slapped him unconscious.

Javier shook from the cold inside the shaft, "I'm willing to be bitten. You don't have to do it this way," he said. He struggled with his bonds and his face was pale white. He held a look of fear to Jean-Louis' enjoyment. Javier started wheezing while his face grew even whiter. "I can't breathe," Javier said with a quiet, husky voice.

Jean-Louis gave Abby a quizzical look. "His asthma," Abby said. "He needs his tube from his pocket."

Abby climbed down the wall and rifled through his pockets to find the inhaler. With a few puffs Javier started consuming huge gulps of air. Abby dropped the medicine on the bottom of the furnace with the bodies. "You won't need this anymore," she said.

"Go ahead," Javier said, "I'm not scared."

"This one is so eager." L'oncle leaped from the wall onto Javier's shoulders. Javier grunted from the exertion. He crawled around the top of his shoulder with dagger like nails scratching the skin.

"Oh, small and whiny one, I wish that were true," Jean-Louis said. "I love when the look of fear blossoms in your face like a flower just discovering the sun. And keep in mind," Jean-Louis stuck his face into Javier's trying to intimidate him –in the way Abby now realized is just cheap theatrics. "I can smell fear."

Abby couldn't smell any special fear. She didn't believe her uncle could either, but Javier looked frightened. He made furtive glances to the weapon in her uncle's hand. "Oncle, s'il vous plaît ne faites pas cela," she begged. (_Uncle, please don't do this_.) It was expected of her – it was her role.

Jean-Louis leaped back to the ceramic wall and beckoned Abby over to him without a word – using only a crook of his finger. With his sharpened nail, he sliced into Abby's wrist and drew her blood into his own being. Abby's skin and face changed rapidly into the creature she had come to despise. The cravings drove her anguish with the lust of hunger. _Where are you, Owen?_

Jean-Louis brought a chain weapon with a metal cylindrical attached to the end. On the tube were hundreds of sharp, nail-like blades. "It's time to discover the limits of your courage."

L'oncle swung the weapon onto Javier's back. It stuck where it landed next to Javier's angel bone, penetrating at least a quarter inch. He grunted from the impact and his breath came more quickly. Jean-Louis tugged on the weapon and raked all the way down Javier's back, peeling skin as it went. Javier sobbed and screamed in agony. Jean-Louis chuckled and looked toward Abby for her response.

Breathing heavy with a low, steady purr, Abby howled but held her cravings in check. The blood called to her – it sung for her pleasure. But she tried to refrain from bending to her uncle's base desires.

"You've grown willful without me, haven't you? We'll have to mend that attitude."

He retracted the flail from Javier's back and swung it a second time. Javier's shriek grew even louder if that was possible. "This tube carries sound all the way up to the heavens like a pipe organ," Jean-Louis said. "Does your God enjoy the sweet melody?"

Three more times, Jean-Louis raked the weapon across Javier's back before Abby could no longer restrain herself. She bounded from the wall to a perch on Javier's shoulders. She licked his flayed back, and then pierced the lining of his neck. Abby drank her fill of Javier.

Bored following the activities, L'oncle retired to his accommodations. He took charge of one of the crucibles and all of the blankets. The moment was over; his desire was satisfied.

"What about Javier?" Abby asked. "We can't just leave him there. He'll burn when the sun crosses the top of the stack."

"Do what you want," Jean-Louis said. "If he's as strong as he claims, he'll get free – or if you are as weak as you look. As for me, I've mollified my appetite. I need to rest."

The painful cry of the new voice penetrated Abby's thoughts. She was tempted to leave Javier there. In the end, she relented and pulled him in the mill. Not out of weakness, but out of contempt for her uncle. _He's a shallow man._

"We will need to get help from other people; the unchanged," Abby said.

"Help?" Jean-Louis replied before his sleep. "We don't need help. We need slaves."

**Gabriella Agosto**

Just a short while after the disastrous youth group expedition, Gabriella sat in the shelter common room with Billy. Father Erasmus entered the room with a determined stride and a rare, serious expression. "That was not a lot of fun," he said with rueful sarcasm as he sat down at the table. "Is there anything to eat? I never did get any hot dogs."

Gabriella rose to get some cereal while Billy asked, "It seems like we've been waiting here for hours. What have you been up to?"

"I've been trying to settle a dozen angry parents. Let me tell you, that is no small feat."

Gabriella returned with the cereal and placed the bowl and silverware on the table. "What could they expect? We had no idea of what he was capable ... the violence. I'm sure they understood."

Padre crunched through a spoonful of Raisin Bran and took a sip from his coffee. "I'm not upset about Kenny or Owen or whatever his name is. I can always explain sympathy for those considerably less fortunate than us. There is no denying he fits that category. If the parents can't handle that, then they haven't been listening to my sermons." Padre leaned back in his chair with a frown. He pulled out a wad of snuff and placed it in his mouth. A little bit of euphoria glazed across his eyes.

Gabriella was dying hear the story. She wanted to know what happened with the parents ... a little of the parish gossip to whet her appetite. "Well, what were they complaining about? His sodomy insult … his violent streak."

"How can you claim that he is the violent?" Padre asked her. "He did nothing. He just sat there and took it."

Like she was taking a cold shower, goosebumps formed on Gabriella's arm and a tingle ran up her back. "They were complaining about me?" she protested. "Kenny mugged Billy. He ruined Billy's future."

Resigned, Padre answered, "Yes, they were complaining about you. You're the shining example of our parish. The parish pays your college tuition." Tears of exasperation rose in Padre's eyes. "For crying out loud, Gabriella, the vice president of the parish council was out there. They approve all of our spending. That includes your scholarship. He's questioning the wisdom of that investment."

"Of all the nerve," Gabriella said. "Don't listen to him. ¡Él es joto estǘpido! (_He is a stupid faggot_!) He has never liked me because I'm Mexican."

"I think it's best if I pretend that I don't understand Spanish." Padre said. "With every swing of that stick, you validated his prejudice. I had to explain to a dozen parents why our stellar example of righteousness struck a defenseless homeless youth – right in front of a group middle school students."

"Why didn't you defend yourself?" she asked Billy. "You just accepted it."

"Don't bring me into this," Billy said with an angry scowl irritated. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Please do," Padre said. "I'd like to hear the explanation. Why don't you seem angry about losing your hearing?" Billy sat there quiet for a few minutes. "It's all right," Padre added, "You're among friends."

Billy made a guilty glance toward Gabriella. "Of course I'm angry; but I deserved it," he said. Padre and Gabriella looked at him expecting further explanation. "I used to hang out with a couple of idiots, whose idea of a good time was drinking beer, making ignorant comments to girls, and stealing money." Billy rubbed his chin stammering over the best explanation. "It made us feel better than them … stronger. One time, they stole money from Kenny. I was with them … I was part of it. And worse … I thought it was fun."

"That just makes me feel wonderful," Gabriella said. "Were those friends ever welcome at your house?"

"Sure, all the time."

"That's just great," Gabriella said. "They let violent juvenile delinquents into their home, but not someone who is Catholic."

"Look at the bright side," Padre said. "Maybe you'll be welcome there now." Padre's mind began to wander. Gabriella could see his wheel's spinning. "I've been distracted all day by something Kenny said on the island."

"Yes, Padre?"

"When Kenny first arrived, didn't he say something about a little sister?"

"Yes, now that you mention it, he did. He said she was sick and very contagious. What do you think happened to her?"

"I'm not sure, but out there on that island, he said 'I killed her'. I wonder if Kenny feels responsible for his sister's death. Billy why don't you check on him? See how he is doing?"

A few minutes later Billy returned alone. "He's gone … flew the coop."

"I wonder if he'll ever be back," Padre said. Gabriella was shamed by the expression of blame on his face.

It was already late, well past nightfall. "Can you walk me back to the dorms?" she asked Billy. "I think I need to clear my thoughts."

**Owen**

Owen wandered aimlessly along the lonely streets of the city craving contact or at least some conversation with Abby. He crossed the Fourth Street Bridge ignoring the view of the island and stared in the direction of the mill. He could feel her. She still lived there, but it was day time. She was sleeping. He felt her anger and hatred radiate through the bond erasing any temptation to stroll into the mill.

He needed to replace his pixie dust. That was all. It would dampen the tremors and quiet the noises in his head – give him a chance to think. Unfortunately, he didn't have any money and he didn't have a ready weapon to smash in glass. He abandoned his tire iron in the mill; snow made rocks difficult to find.

By nightfall, he roamed through most of the familiar east side of the river. He walked by the house on Goat Hill, but it was dark and empty. He found himself near the train station where the nightly festivities were just beginning. Women patrolled the sidewalks prowling for customers just like they used to along D Street. Without the balance provided by the street preacher, the scene was somehow seedier – which didn't prevent cars from stopping and picking up a girl or two.

Replacing the cry of the preacher, an older woman surveyed the sidewalk holding out a large photograph. Owen's heart went out to her. "Has anyone seen my daughter?" she pleaded, but the prostitutes ignored her. "Please, help me find her. My beautiful girl. She goes by the name Moira."

"Hey lady, quiet down! You're scaring away the customers," said one of the streetwalkers. Owen remembered her. She was the lucky one. Her name was Destiny. "Nobody gives a flying fuck about your daughter." Encouraged by the catcalls of her peers, Destiny continued her scorching chastisement. "Go home, old lady. She's found better pastures."

Owen stood in place, observing the altercation. He wanted to help balance the injustice. Destiny had no right to call out the mother like that. She missed her daughter; that was all. But like those who passed by when Owen was begging, he did nothing. It was what he was best at. Someday soon, this mother will realize the futility of her search. Today, all she owned was hope, and Owen wasn't going to defeat that. Stung by the bitterness of his shame he left B Street to roam around other areas of the city.

Before long he found himself positioned at the front door of the Blazing Crescent. The lights inside the store were so dark that he almost didn't recognize it. _How long had it been since I was here_? Another place and time that belonged to his prehomicidal past. He just stood there trying to decide if he should knock. He noticed the faded printing on the front door – "A Gateway to a New Reality" stenciled beneath the store name. He finally decided that he could use a new reality and pounded on the glass door.

Owen waited for a few minutes before the lights came on in the store, the door swung open. Owen was inundated by an abundance of Selkie. "Owen where have you been? I have been searching all over town for you." She started crying – touching his face and hands like he was a mystical spirit. "The mill was deathly quiet. I didn't know where to find you." She placed her arms around his shoulder and kissed his neck. "I thought you might have traveled to the land of the faerie, but I didn't want to return there."

Owen was stunned by the idea. "Promise me you'll stay away from the mill," he said. He felt the cold tingle of metal ear art countered by warm wet tears dripping on his neck. So upset by his actions, so consumed by thoughts of Abby his mind crowded out Selkie. He whispered, "Sometimes, I don't feel like I belong in this world at all."

"That wonderful," Selkie said wiping away a tear. She withdrew from the embrace. "I feel like that all the time." She fingered his whiskers as if she wasn't sure he was real, and played with the short curls in his hair. "You trimmed your beard," she said. "I'm going to have to make new sketches."

"They cut it at the hospital," Owen said, embarrassed by her fascination.

"You were in the hospital. Are you okay?" she asked worried. "I was certain you stopped coming because you were disgusted by me. I let loose evil on the world. I understand why you couldn't forgive me."

"I've been in the hospital, that's all," Owen said. Of course, the hospital stay was only one night.

"Why didn't you tell us? I would have come to visit."

Owen didn't know how to answer her. He felt warmth of embarrassment rise up his neck and was sure Selkie could see his flushed expression. If she did, she ignored it. "Selkie, I've done a terrible thing. Please don't judge me."

"Why would I judge you?" Selkie wondered. Without giving him the chance to explain she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the shuttered store. "You need to come upstairs," she insisted. "Jane is going to be so excited to see you!"

She wasn't.


	30. Chapter 30

Note: Chapters 28, 29 & 30 were once Chapter 16

Chapter 30

Obsessions

**Owen**

Jane made a face like she was straining against the release of gas when she greeted Owen. "We've already eaten, but I guess you want some food."

"I don't want to be any bother."

"No bother at all," Jane said with an exaggerated sigh. Owen winced at each bang and clatter of pots and pans as though they were intended personally for him. She prepared a fresh Kraft dinner. Selkie tried speaking with Owen, but over the din he had trouble paying attention. Something about the hospital or the house or some other thing.

Owen had difficulty relaxing in his seat. He kept bouncing his hands and feet, trying to form a coherent thought. Finally he broached the subject of money.

"No problem; I have plenty," Selkie said.

Almost at the same time, Jane got straight to the point, "Are you going to buy drugs?"

"No," Owen insisted.

Jane glanced at Selkie and demanded, "Don't give him any." Owen tried to appear disappointed, but he could've danced. He'd been around long enough to know that such an ultimatum almost guaranteed a handout from Selkie.

He wolfed down the Kraft dinner. The warmth calmed him and the cheese sauce was great. Selkie put her arms around his neck and whispered, "It's okay. We'll go out shopping tomorrow. Whatever you want."

"Where are you sleeping tonight?" Jane asked taking possession of the dirty dishes.

"I haven't given it much thought," Owen said. He gazed outside the window into the cold winter sky. He was content with the warmth in here. "Maybe the sofa?" he suggested.

Selkie pulled him closer, possessively, almost wringing his neck. "He's sleeping with me in my room."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Jane said, "Maybe he should sleep with me."

Selkie jumped up and grabbed Owen by the hand. "Come on, Owen." She dragged him down the hall and into her room before neither he nor Jane could manage a protest. Owen was relieved – the thought of sleeping in Jane's room sounded gross.

The sudden intimacy of their seclusion behind the closed door of Selkie's bedroom felt a little strange, but not as awkward as the dozen or so drawings of Owen lining the wall. He didn't remember the shrine last time he visited. Owen steered away from those and toward the soft, inviting mattress. He removed his high top sneakers and climbed underneath the down comforter. A real bed!

Selkie removed her outer clothes. Wearing only her panties, she searched through her dresser for a nightgown. She tossed it on the bed next to him. Owen tried to ignore her movements, but she seemed unaware of his fascination. Like a little boy, worried he'd be caught reading a Playboy, he was both anxious and curious. Owen had seen Abby naked many times, but it was not the same. Selkie had more curves. And a delicate shape. He tried not to stare, but she was shameless.

One by one she removed her many earrings and placed them on the dresser. Growing a little more relaxed and assured, he was able to study her decorations. He remembered the snake running up her arm. She must have a half-dozen tattoos including a butterfly on her thigh and a bird above her breast. "Is that a raven?"

She moved closer to him and showed him the tattoo, "It's a dove," she said. "You can't really tell because the ink is green." This close he could study it. Obscured by the artwork was a spiderweb scar from a burn. She removed the rest of her earrings and her makeup. On her abdomen, she had another tattoo of an angel which also covered a deep, jagged scar.

"You don't have to sleep in your clothes," she said. "You'll be more comfortable in your underwear."

Owen thought that the opposite might be true. "I'm not wearing any," he said practically coughing the answer through his dry throat. Selkie unfolded her nightgown right next to the bed and pulled it over her head and down onto her torso. _Show's over_.

"I don't like going without underwear," Selkie answered him casually. "It chafes."

She extinguished the lights leaving the room in the darkness of a bluish nightlight. She crawled next to him in the bed and draped her hands across him. "I think I figured out why you haven't come back," she said. "It's because of that poem … isn't it? I gave up working on it."

"It was fate," Owen answered thinking about Moira.

Selkie kissed him and snuggled up next to him, "I'm sorry I was weak," she whispered. "I placed my arms around his neck and embraced the angel of death. You would be surprised to hear how ticklish his mane is. I should be stronger. I have some ideas. We can work on them tomorrow."

She placed her lips on his and kissed him with the hunger of loneliness. Owen twisted to share the contact. Her body was soft and warm next to him. She felt comfortable … almost precious. He rested his hand underneath the short nightgown in the hollow of her waist. Her muscles responded to the touch. Owen wanted to bend to her will ... give in. Instead he said, "Selkie, I don't think this is a good idea."

Selkie withdrew, appearing disappointed and hurt. Owen continued, "Don't be upset. I think I'm sick. I don't want you to get sick, too."

"I understand," she said. She rubbed his cheek in kindness. "You're a good person."

Owen didn't think so and he was surprised when Selkie sat up and removed her night shirt. "You can still touch me if you want." Underneath the comforter she removed her underwear and tossed it to the side.

Owen barely considered the oddity of the suggestion. Selkie lay back on the bed presenting a profile that Owen longed for. He placed his hands on her ribs and caressed the soft, billowing skin under her breast. Soft and fleshy compared to when he cleaned Abby. _I need to stop doing that … thinking of Abby_. _She is irritated right now. _

Rotating his thumb he was surprised by the change in the texture of the skin around her nipple. He couldn't breathe. He trembled with tentative doubt … waiting for Selkie to become angry or offended. Swallowing what little moisture he had left, he started to relax, to enjoy the moment. He pushed himself up to kiss her … to include her in the experience. Her head lay back on her pillow at an odd angle with her mouth open. Only solid whites showed in her eyes. Her eyelids twittered in rapid spasms.

"Selkie, are you okay?" Owen said shaking her torso. "Selkie."

She recovered from the trance; her blue irises glowing in the darkness. "I was communing with the goddess," she said. "It helps me relax." She placed her hand on Owen's cheek. "I learned to escape like that when I was with my father."

The answer deflated his tension. "With your father?"

Selkie nodded. "He loved me," she answered. "Did you mother lie with you, too? Did she love you?"

"Yes ... no." Owen was frustrated and disturbed by the implications. "Yes, she loved me. No she did not lie with me. Selkie ... he shouldn't have done that."

"He was going to take me to the lake. That would have been special … spiritual. But he disappeared. What about your father?"

"My father," Owen said wondering how much he should trust Selkie, "he ignored me," Owen lied. He rubbed his fingers over the angel tattoo on her abdomen and over the raggedness of her wound. "Did your father give you these scars?"

"No … no, not at all. He loved me." She swallowed and stared at the ceiling. "I can tell you these things. I can trust you, right?"

"Sure," Owen said.

"After he left, Jane tried to protect me from everybody. I was sheltered in this apartment. I felt like nobody cared or even knew I existed." She rolled over and rubbed her hands over his shirt. She continued to avert her eyes from Owen's. He cringed each time she discovered a new bruise. "Jane kept herself busy with the store. With the pain … I felt alive. Then, at least Jane paid attention to me." She turned and looked him in the eyes, pleading for understanding. "Does any of that make sense? Do you think I'm crazy?"

"A little. No more than I am."

She lifted his shirt up over his head and caressed his ribs. Owen recoiled from her touch. "What about these bruises? Where'd you get them?"

"Nowhere in particular," Owen said. "Bruises are a part of my life." He knew that answer wouldn't serve. "It's more than that. I'm a little insane myself. The bruises make me feel safe."

Even to Owen that didn't make any sense. Selkie finally found the courage to look into his eyes in wonder and worry. She studied him patiently – willing him to continue, but giving him time to collect his thoughts.

"My father treated my mother pretty bad sometimes." Selkie looked surprised at the admission. "I couldn't do anything to help her. I hid in my room. I was such a coward." He could feel his father's wrath, the force of his fists on his chest. "When I tried to help her, it was no use. I sawed off a broomstick and hid it for weeks … waiting for the right time. I tried to defend her. What a joke. He took it out of my hands and taught me a lesson." Owen had denied it all of these years. Giving voice to the words … vocalizing them out loud to someone else brought truth. His eyes moistened; he struggled to fight back the tears. "Sometimes, I think pain makes me feel secure. It feels like home. I welcome it."

"Didn't he love you?"

"I don't know. I'd like to think so. He could just get so angry. My mother was brave. She took me away, and I treated her with contempt. Sometimes there are no good choices."

"We're a pair, aren't we?" Selkie said. "I could start trying to pierce your ears, if you want it to feel like home."

"No, thanks. I don't really like the pain. Why don't you put your clothes back on. Don't go anywhere to escape; don't commune with the goddess. I'll hold you while we fall asleep."

"No you won't," she said as she donned the pajamas. "I'll hold you."

**Abby**

Javier sat on the hard concrete, whining and moaning. "I'm hungry," he cried, "and thirsty." He had sat there while Abby tried to sleep. His painful thoughts kept her agitated all day.

Abby sighed at his weakness. It was up to her to teach him. "We've taken all of your blood. You need to replace it."

"Where do I get more blood?" Javier asked.

Abby rolled her eyes at his ignorance. "You get it from another person."

"Nobody is going to give me their blood."

"That's why you have to take it … you have to learn to hunt."

Javier keeled over and let out a loud, long moan. After a good thirty seconds he quieted down to a steady simper. "Why does it hurt so much? Nobody told me there would be so much pain."

Aggravated, Abby walked over to him and grabbed him by the collar to get his attention. "Can you breathe?"

He took a few breaths. The air flowed free and clear. Javier nodded, "Yes, I can breathe."

"You got what you wished for. Now suck it up." She let go of his shirt, forcefully pushing him toward the ground. "I'm not going to spend eternity with a baby."

She paced around the mill trying to collect her thoughts. _Owen, I hope your happy out there … but not too happy. _"The big, scary guy over there," she indicated to her uncle sleeping in the crucible, "he doesn't care if you live or die. I'm beginning to wonder how much I care."

"But it hurts," he groaned.

Abby voice grew deeper and her eyes changed to angry blue, "Calm down. I know what you feel. I drank your blood; I can sense it. Do you remember that guy that used to be here, Owen?" Javier nodded. "He suffered through more pain all of the time ... and he hasn't been changed."

Abby paced some more trying to regain control. Losing her temper wouldn't help, "Your best aid to hunting is the ability to fly. Look at the back of my neck." She pointed to the spot. "Do you see the nubs growing?" Javier nodded through his cringing. "Good. You have to practice forcing them out. Think about the spot on your own neck and think about the wings." Wings sprouted in an instant.

"Does that hurt?"

"Yes, but you'll get used to it. I'll help guide you through mentally, so concentrate."

"I want to go home," he groaned. "No more pain."

"Get over it. This is your home." She was growing impatient. "Now the wings … we'll work on them all night. Then tomorrow night you hunt."

"Why can't I hunt in the morning?"

"Oh, I almost forgot ... important safety tip," Abby said with a wry smile, "stay out of the sun. It's not your friend." She paused for a moment, the added one more condition. "One more tip for you – the guy you saw here before, he's out there sometimes at night. Don't touch him or ... I will kill you."

"Hah," Javier laughed. "You're just a girl. Now that I'm like you, you can't kill me."

"I'm a lot stronger than you think I am." With one flap of her wings she was on top of Javier, pinning him to the ground. She got right into his face and hissed, "Try to get away." Then, even louder, coarser, "Try it!"

Javier struggled with his arms and wriggled uselessly under Abby's force, "Do you doubt me anymore?" With her deep voice the question sounded like a clear threat. Javier shook his head. "Good, don't touch Owen." She rubbed her claws over his neck. "Breaking your neck would be quick, but I would probably just hold us in the sun and let it take both of us. That will be a lot more painful." She laughed with a little of her uncle's melodramatics. Javier received the message. He couldn't hide from Abby. She tasted his blood.

**Owen**

Owen woke to the sun shining into the quiet solitude of Selkie's room. He was alone. _Wonder where she is._ After he got out of bed, he decided to take down all of the drawings tacked to the wall. There was nothing he could do about the giant mural. _That head is almost as big as I am_.

He left the bedroom in disarray and heard the shower running across the hall. Tempted to go in, he thought better of it. _What if it's Jane? Ugh_. Instead, he chose to try the half bath off the living room. He wanted to brush his scuzzy teeth.

He found Jane in the kitchen wearing a white terry-cloth robe preparing a full glass of a pink drink.

"What's for breakfast?" he asked.

"I made this especially for you," Jane said and handed him the glass. She watched him with predatory cool, the same way a cat stalks a rat.

Owen sat down at his seat at the table and took a sip. He recoiled at the bitter taste, "Yuck," he said with a shudder, "it tastes awful. What is it?"

"It's a special concoction I made," she said. "It helps relieve the cravings associated with drug addiction."

"I'm not addicted," Owen said. "Can't I just have sausage?"

"Drink it," Jane demanded. "Then, maybe something else."

Owen steeled himself to drink the foul brew. "What's in it?" he asked.

"It's a blend of mango, papaya and bitterwort," Jane said, "Papaya is out of season, so it has a lot more pulp than normal." As though Owen had any idea how much pulp Papaya was supposed to have.

"I think there's a little too much bitterwort," Owen grumbled. "You should consider adding some sugar to the recipe." Maybe after this he could be back on Jane's good side. He placed the glass to his lips and took another sip. _Shudder_. "It's going to take a long time at this rate."

Jane leaned against the counter with her arms folded. Lips pinched tight in irritation at Owen's hesitation. _This must be pretty important to her._ He put the glass to his lips and drew in a huge gulp of the thick, squishy drink and forced it down his throat. "Aagh. This stuff is awful!" he said. And Owen knew awful – he had been drinking coffee for the last few days. "Don't you have something I could use to wash it down?"

Selkie strolled into the Kitchen, in a pink bathrobe and flip flops with her hair wet from the shower. A towel was draped around her shoulders. "What tastes so awful?" she asked.

Before Owen could answer, Jane said, "I prepared something special for Owen. Something to help him feel better."

Selkie walked over standing next to Owen and said, "Really? Aren't you feeling well Owen?"

He didn't answer. He wasn't exactly sure what to say – _I'm suffering from a little too much Jane_.

Jane gasped when Selkie reached over, picked up the glass, and swallowed a sip. Selkie licked her lips with furrowed brows of conjecture. "It does taste bad. I know that taste. It tastes familiar, like …"

She lifted the glass up to her lips for another taste. Before Owen knew it, Jane was next to her knocking the glass from Selkie's hands. The glass shattered onto the floor, spilling pink slime.

"You struck me," Selkie said in a subdued voice.

Jane shattered into more pieces than the broken glass. She was quivering and crying all at once trying to figure out what to do. "I'm sorry," she said. "A shadow … I saw a shadow on the back of your hand. It was your serpent tattoo. I thought there was something on it … on your hand." She grabbed a towel; threw it down; picked up a wash cloth. Indecisive and uncertain, she couldn't decide the best way to clean up the mess. Finally, she opened the cabinet beneath the sink and took out the dust pan and brush.

"I remember what it tastes like," Selkie said. "Come on, Owen. I need to get dressed and then we're going out to eat." She pulled him away from the table. Still in his bare feet, Owen had to step gingerly over the broken glass. Selkie glared at her sister as she pulled Owen to the hallway. "It tastes like poison."

An hour later, content with full serving of IHOP pancakes, they were standing in front of an automated teller. Selkie punched in some numbers and a few minutes later out popped $500. "That's great," Owen said. "Where can I get one of those cards?"

"I've been thinking about the poem," Selkie said. "I have some ideas. After we buy you some clothes, there are a few other supplies. Then we can study the rest of the poem to see what else it might mean. First clothes."

They walked over a mile to the Baughman's Men's store. Selkie pretty much took charge of the entire expedition. She chose some underwear (boxers) so that Owen would have something wear when he tried on clothes. This enormous warehouse clothes had all manner of dress shirts, suits, and casual pants available. "Just blue jeans," Owen insisted, "I'm not going on a job interview any time soon."

"We could get you some nice bleached or ripped jeans," Selkie suggested, "or maybe some acid washed jeans."

All told they picked out three pairs of plain Levi's, including one black pair, three rugby shirts, pajamas, a lined Gore-tex jacket, six pairs of socks and an outfit Owen didn't know how to describe: leather pants and some metallic, purplish, silky button down shirt. "Here's three hundred dollars. That should cover the purchases. I'm going to run across the street to buy a few things at the drug store. Do you think you can handle everything here?"

"Sure," Owen nodded, "Can you get me a toothbrush at the drug store?"

Selkie kissed Owen on the cheek and left the large store. "Will you be checking out now?" the salesman asked Owen.

"Yeah. Here take back the leather pants and shirt. I won't need those. How much is the total after that?"

The salesman added up the sale, "The total comes to $206.36."

"Hmm," Owen said, "why don't you take back a couple pair of socks, too." _That will leave me with over a hundred dollars. Plenty – Selkie won't miss it and won't ask about it_. "Thanks for all of your help."

Owen headed out the door to meet Selkie bounding across the street. "What did you need to get at the drugstore?" Owen asked.

"Protection," she said with a huge grin. She interlaced her fingers in Owen's and started walking down the sidewalk.

"What kind of protection? Like a powerful symbol or something?"

"I got protection from Ancient Greece. The best kind," she answered cryptically. "Now we need to head off to the pet store."

At the pet store, Selkie chose a white dove, and paid for it and a small cage. She held it up in front of Owen and said, "Pray dear Paraclete. Isn't she beautiful?"

She tried to negotiate with the sales lady to buy a swan of all things. They have to order one, but before Selkie can purchase it, she had to obtain a permit at City Hall. "How annoying," she said.

"What is all of this about?"

"These are for the poem. I believe that that the Paraclete means that we have to use a dove in the ceremony. I'm hoping to have everything ready by March 20th. That's the big day."

"What big day?" Owen asked.

"It's my birthday, of course! I'll be eighteen, just like you. More to the point, it's the vernal equinox. A spiritual day. We can purify the altar and then go right into the poem, but we need all of the ingredients. I still have no idea what the vessel of grace means or the essence of hope."

"You have been working on the poem?"

"Of course I have, silly. I promised you I would." She playfully kissed him on the cheek. "I'm doing it for you."

"But why?" Owen wondered. "I'm not even sure that I need it anymore."

Selkie's smile melted away. "I've been taken care of my entire life. I've never had to sacrifice for anyone. Let me do this for you," she said with all seriousness. "This is my way to face my fears. And I think I need that."

"All right. What can I do to help?"

"Just be there for me," Selkie said. Owen agreed, but he had no idea how difficult that request was going to become. He was pulled in too many directions. The strongest pull came from his greatest weakness. His need for that dusty, white powder.

A few hours later they were sitting in the kitchen of the big house on Goat Hill eating Chinese takeout. Owen asked about the store and when it would reopen. It was never going to happen; Rufus left them enough that they didn't need to worry about the store anymore. The more Selkie talked about the things, the more Owen realized that, with her inheritance, she suddenly had very little need. It was a chance for safety, security, and contentment. In other words – boredom.

He didn't want to seem ungrateful. He had spent his whole life since Los Alamos running and hiding and scrounging for food. Every spare moment was consumed by some worry. Selkie said she needed him. Owen couldn't imagine why. But he knew he didn't deserve this happiness. Nightmares of Moira would not let him rest.

Owen barely touched his food. Nausea began to rise. The soy sauce smell only intensified the pain. While Selkie was talking, she sounded further and further away like Owen was underwater. He began to sweat and shivered from chills. Selkie had to repeat her question twice before Owen heard it, "Are you okay?"

"I don't think so," Owen said. The back of his wrist against his forehead was clammy. He felt the echo from Abby. It wasn't her, but it was feeding his pain. "Maybe it was Jane's drink … the poison." He tried to quell the rebelling stomach, and the spasms ebbed. "I think I just need to lie down for a while."

With Selkie's help he got into his new flannel pajamas. Under other circumstances this might have been fun, but he fought the effects of a fever along with the nausea.

As Selkie helped him into bed she said, "That's a shame, we won't get to try our Ancient Greek protection." She laughed at Owen's quizzical look and added, "Trojans."

Owen fell asleep before Selkie crawled in next to him.

A few hours later, his fever broke. He woke to darkness and hunger and Selkie breathing heavily next to him. This was a moment of happiness and contentment he didn't deserve. He had a momentary vision of Moira's mother flashing that photograph. Downstairs, he ate some of the leftover Chinese, donned his new Gore-tex jacket, and headed outside. The spare hundred dollars was begging to find a use, and Owen wasn't going to disappoint it.

Before long, after visiting the denizens of the parking garage and purchasing some powder, he was flying through an empty lot, not entirely certain how he got there. The streets were mostly empty at the late hour, and he wasn't minding the cold one bit. The din of voices and bruises were mercifully quiet. The unthreatening tower lay before him and he couldn't sense Abby – not at all.

_See, Abby, you're not the only one who can fly._ It turns out there were other members of that club. He was startled by the angry screech from a beast flying overhead framed by the stars. _That's not Abby._ His perception distorted by the drugs, he thought the being was ten feet tall with three heads. The vision terrified him. The drugs didn't provide enough courage to face that. Owen ran through the snow covered brush of the empty lot all the way to the Fourth Street Bridge. Crouching behind the embankment, Owen withdrew into that shelter of a little boy, hidden behind the slats of the stairs.

_His mother sat in the family room with her guest sharing a glass of wine. Their temperaments were pleasant and a little too friendly. Owen was angry at their familiarity. She laughed at one of his lame attempts at humor and rubbed arm._

_The priest adopted a serious tone and said, "Samantha, I've been asking around with some friends to help you in this time of difficulty."_

"_About what?" she asked._

"_I found a job for you in Los Alamos … as a waitress … and I found an apartment for you, too. It isn't much, but I think you should take it. You should decide quickly. David will be home soon," he placed his hand on her bruised cheek, "and I think it will be better if you weren't here."_

_Owen's mother began to tear up. Behind the tears she gave an expectant smile. "That will be wonderful. You will be joining us, won't you?"_

"_What?" the priest said with an uncomfortable pause before he continued. He reddened from embarrassment. "No … umm … I'm sorry Samantha. I didn't mean to mislead you. My flock is here."_

_She nodded at the answer. She expected as much, but she had hoped for something more. "I'll check back with you after we get settled," she said and walked him to the door. She glanced up the stairs and spotted him._

"Owen, have you been here the whole time?" Greg said as he shook Owen out of his stupor. He was breathing heavy from running. "What was that thing?"

Owen shook out the visions of his old family room to remember where he was … under the bridge. "We need to get across the river. It can't cross running water."

"Do you think it will be able to find us here?" Greg asked. "Are we safe?"

"I'm sure it can smell us now," Owen said.

"Then, what the hell are we doing under the bridge?" Greg asked. "Shouldn't we be on top?"

Owen held him back by his arm. Greg looked primed for a fight, and Owen was worried he would try to attack it. "You can't fight it. We have to run."

He let loose a wild cackle. "Imagine you and me going out like this, huh Blaise?"

Owen heard a noise on his other side. Blaise sat in isolation, trapped in his catatonic state trying to depress an imaginary rifle trigger.

"Blaise," Owen said shaking his shoulder. He had to let go of Greg's arm to do so. "Blaise, we need to get out of here."

Owen saw the recognition grow in Blaise's eyes. "Owen?" he asked. "What are you doing here? Why are you on the battlefield?"

"We're not in Vietnam. We're in Pueblo and we have to get across the river."

"The beast," Blaise said with his returning memories.

"Yes, the beast. Are you going to be okay? At least until we get across the river."

Blaise settled back on his haunches and relaxed. "What are you running from?"

"Right now, I'm running from that beast," Owen said, but he didn't think that was going to be a good enough answer for Blaise. "I'm running from my entire life. I've done everything wrong."

"Have you ever watched someone die?"

_Now?_ "No," Owen answered. Even with Moira, he squeezed his eyes tight. "I can't watch. I don't have the strength."

"I watched four of my friends die," Blaise said. He started crying. Overpowering sobs punctuated his rage as the reality crashed home. They heard another screech from the sky. "When that mortar went off I was so scared, that I fired my rifle at anything and anyone that moved. Four of my friends who trusted me to keep my cool. And I've been running ever since."

Owen tried to lift his arm to get him moving, "Let's go Blaise. Run one more time. Let's get across the bridge."

"Are we all going to make it?" Blaise asked.

They had to cross a wide embankment to reach the bridge. Then the bridge crossed over seven lanes of railroad tracks before it reached the water. "Probably not," Owen said.

Blaise nodded with recognition of the obvious. "I'm tired of running. I think I'll stop now. You two try to hold onto things without me," he said. "I have my own demons to fight."

With that he tore out across the embankment to the open area of Fourth Street. Greg watched him with resigned admiration. "I guess we wait here," he said and sat down next to Owen. "Tell me about all of those things you've done wrong. I'm guessing one of them has to do with a blood bank."

"Umm," Owen hesitated.

"Don't worry about it. I've done my share of terrible things," Greg said. "I just want to talk; to hear someone's voice."

"I took some money from my mother," Owen started his list with that one.

"That's it?" Greg laughed, "That's nothing even worth mentioning."

"No, I've done worse … a lot worse." Owen was saved with coming up with a longer list of misdeeds by Blaise's scream. A few minutes later they heard wings fluttering wildly followed by a loud thump.

Owen retreated to the care and comfort of his mother's embrace. He remained under the bridge, awake and frightened, until the horizon began to brighten. With the dawn he found himself next to a sleeping Greg. "Wake up," he said with a little shake.

Exiting their citadel, they found Blaise's bloodied and broken body in the vacant lot.

"In the old days, they used to cast bodies in the river," Greg said, "I think Blaise would like that."

Sending Blaise home along the dead river. Greg carried the body over to the bank of the Arkansas. Completely numb to the cold, Owen dropped into the river up to his thighs and accepted Blaise from Greg. He lowered Blaise into the river and let it drift away while Greg mumbled prayers on the bank. "Goodbye my brave friend." The body became caught up on the third of five shallow spillways in the middle of the river and stopped.

"Don't worry. He'll make it," Greg said, "all the way to the Mississippi." He didn't though. But it took the police three days to figure out how to get the body out of the river.

Subdued by cold and plunging adrenaline (and with some narcotic assistance), Owen stumbled back to the location of a warm steam grate where he fell asleep for a few hours. He was shaken awake by a passerby – Billy. "Let's find you someplace safe to say," he said.

Billy helped walk him to the shelter and Owen settled into his habitual bunk, forgetting completely about Selkie. A few days later, when he woke up, he realized the magnitude of his mistake. _The rice_.


	31. Chapter 31

Note: Chapters 31, 32 & 33 were once Chapter 17

Chapter 31

A Puzzle to Solve

**Tony**

"Have you ever encountered someone truly evil? Someone so contemptuous of our mores and values that their crimes defy imagination," the chief began his morning briefing. "The CDC tracks every AIDS case in the country. They want to trace the origination of every strain so that they can understand the scope and progress of the disease."

He held up a large glossy, photograph of a young woman. "This young woman is suspected of transmitting the disease to at least three men. And we all know if there are three, then there are probably more. Her name is Evelyn McTaggert. We have spoken to her parents. They're unaware of her current whereabouts. They contend she blames the entire city for her family's economic hardship. The transmission appears to be intentional."

The chief waited for a few minutes for the significance to sink in. "Vice has been trying to find her for weeks, but they can't locate her. Each of you will have a photograph and full description, including distinguishing characteristics. In her work, as a prostitute on the East Side, she uses the alias of Moira."

One of the other officers glanced toward Tony and said, "Looks like we have our own Typhoid Tony." Everybody chuckled at the joke except, to his credit, the chief.

Tony placed his hand in front of his mouth and coughed a word that sounded a lot like, "dumbass."

The last few weeks had been tired and lonely on the force. Tony wasn't one of those persons to search elsewhere for happiness – never one of those "grass is always greener" kind of people – but the grass in Denver was beginning to look a lot brighter.

Jess Corrle had been found hanging from a rope in his family room, suspended by his loneliness and shame. His landlord discovered his body when the neighbors complained about the stink a week after his death. His girlfriend had left him and his family wasn't speaking to him. The blood Tony donated may have saved his life, but it killed him almost as quickly.

Roberto Prindle's story was similar. After his infant's murder, Roberto abandoned the city without so much as a goodbye or forwarding address. With him went Tony's entire support group within the force. His one refuge was isolation in his police cruiser. As a detective in Denver, he would lose even this escape.

Following the patrol meeting, Tony waited in line with the others to receive the reports. When he reached the chief, he asked the one question at the forefront of his thoughts … the one question that will keep him far away from Denver. "Has anybody reported anything about my son? Any leads or anything?"

The chief shook his head. "Nothing. I'll let you know the first moment we hear anything."

"I'll follow up on any rumors, no matter how bizarre or farfetched," Tony said. "Just let me know what they are."

"Why don't you take a few weeks off? Spend some time with your wife."

"Spending time off is the worst thing I could do. I need to keep busy," Tony answered.

With that he took his patrol assignment from Nancy Cutshaw ("I won't be following this today. Is that a problem?" She adjusted her glasses and shook her head. "You guys never follow my carefully detailed routes.") He wandered out to his parking lot for his patrol.

Tony crawled behind the wheel of his police cruiser. A few minutes later, he parked outside the homeless shelter.

The common area was mostly empty with the exception of a few laggards. Gabriella and Aileen were wiping down tables after the completion of breakfast. Two wasted, graying men sat by themselves enjoying a bowl of warm breakfast. Owen sat at his lonely table staring off into space. His leg bounced up and down in constant motion. Along with animated hand motions his lips were moving without any sound. Every so often he flinched and grunted at some phantom object, as though someone were about to strike him.

"Any luck with asking around about Javier?" Tony asked his wife.

She sighed with disappointment. "No luck. I showed his picture to everyone who came in for breakfast. Those who had the wherewithal to answer hadn't seen him."

Tony indicated to Owen, "How's he doing?"

"Not well," Aileen said. "He stopped mumbling and seemed to focus on Javier's photo, but didn't have anything to say. Gabriella says he hasn't spoken or acknowledged anyone for days. She's not even sure his name is Owen – she thinks it might be Kenny. All he does is eat, sleep and stare into space for hours at a time." Aileen said. "He's in there somewhere."

"Have you ever seen anything like it?" Tony asked.

"Far too often," Aileen said, "War veterans, disaster victims, child abuse. He's in pretty bad shape. He'll need more help than he can find in this building."

It was time to go. They had other tasks for this morning. "Take care, Gabriella." He gave a simple wave goodbye. "Aileen and I have to run."

Tony and Aileen left the shelter in the comforting confines of the police cruiser. "Can I drive?" Aileen asked.

"No, but if you want you can moon everybody as we pass by," Tony suggested. They peeled out of the parking lot and headed on the short drive across the bridge.

"Been there, done that," Aileen said. "Although, the last time was from the back seat."

"I guess that's why it's called a 'rear window'. If I remember correctly … the moon was a lot smaller in those days," Tony said. "And look here we are. Her name is Jane now, so try not to call her 'Mab'."

Tony wasn't looking forward to this conversation. The past few weeks with Jane had been strained at best. He was hoping that Aileen and a peace offering would help her open up. He was more interested in the deaths at Lake Pueblo than Jane's father.

The two of them walked across the alley they were using as a parking lot and tapped on the back door. Before long, Jane dressed in a flannel shirt and denim opened the door with a worried expression. "Oh, it's you guys," she said opening the door wider to allow entry.

"It's great to see you after all these years Ma … Jane," Aileen said. "You seem disappointed to see us. Were you expecting somebody?"

"No," Jane answered, "I get some nuts from time to time. Jehovah's Witness types – that sort of thing." They started heading up the back staircase. "Is this personal or business?"

"A little bit of both," Tony said. "I have some news on your father's remains and Aileen wanted to catch up a little."

They enjoyed themselves casually in the family room. Jane provided a tea of some sort of flowery fruit flavor. The combination tasted wretched. Tony suffered through it one sip at a time. He was beginning to understand the code. She treated them as guests. That meant Selkie was probably here somewhere.

Jane sat on the sofa in the family room; Tony and his wife settled into their own chairs across from her. Aileen spoke about Javier and showed Jane a photograph. Just talking about it brought tears to Aileen's somber green eyes.

They hoped this would encourage Jane to open up about the death of her friends and the discovery of her father, but watching his wife break down proved to be more difficult than he expected. Jane hadn't seen Javier. She didn't even know they had a son. And she didn't mention anything about her father or Barleysmith.

"You want to go to the bathroom to freshen up? Jane and I need to discuss her father's remains." Tony suggested to his wife.

Aileen stood up and walked over to the hallway. "This way?" she said trying to hold back her worries. Jane nodded. "I'll only be a few minutes."

"What's going on with my father?" Jane asked nervoujsly as soon as Aileen disappeared around the corner.

Tony relaxed back into the easy chair. "Initially, the death was labeled suspicious," he said, "then we lost our medical examiner in an accident." No need to go into any details. "The coroner is a political appointee who didn't want to release the body without a statement from the medical examiner. Meanwhile, with only a part time examiner, bodies have been piling up. I've been bending his ear, trying to persuade him it could be a suicide. Finally, I succeeded."

"How did you possibly manage that?" Jane wondered.

He didn't get a chance to answer the question when he heard his name called from the hallway. "Tony." The cry had a sense of urgency to it. He jumped up and hurried over to find his wife staring into Selkie's bedroom. "Tony, look at this," Aileen said pointing into the room.

Tony glanced inside the bedroom. "Wow. What do you know?" he said observing the mural on the wall. "And you always said, 'the big city life lacked small town familiarity.' That picture wasn't here on my last visit. His hair is a lot shorter now, but I'm sure it's the same guy."

"It is. I should know," Aileen said. "I cut it."

"What's with the big red 'X' over his face?" Tony wondered.

Still in her pajamas, Selkie was laying on the bed with tears in her eyes and trickles of bright eyeliner running down her cheeks. "Have you seen him?" she asked. Selkie continued in rapid progression, not giving anyone a chance to answer. "I've been looking all over the place. I tried all of the hospitals in town and even the next counties. Nobody has seen him."

She inhaled a deep sobbing breath with a quivering lip and continued. "He said he got his hair cut at the hospital, but that made no sense at all. I've gotten my hair cut lots of time, and I never even thought of going to the hospital. I thought maybe he was lying about that so I started checking the barbershops, but there's so many of them." She looked at Aileen through her tears, "Are you a hairdresser?"

"No, sweetie, I'm a nurse at the hospital," Aileen said. "He wasn't lying about the haircut." Selkie looked relieved at the information. She turned to Tony and Jane, "Why don't you guys continue your chat? I'll take care of this."

"I think I should stay," Jane said. "She's my sister. It will make her more comfortable."

Selkie seemed to suddenly realize Jane stood just outside the room. Tony couldn't help but notice the effect that Jane's voice had on her. Selkie buried her head in her pillow with a deepening sob.

Tony said, "Let's continue out in the other room. I don't know about you, but Aileen has better training for this sort of thing than I do."

Jane reluctantly allowed herself to be steered back to the family room. Tony can be forceful that way when he wants to be. He shut the door to Jane's condescending comment. "I can't believe she contacted all of the hospitals in the neighboring counties. How foolish. She doesn't even know his last name."

"I'm not even sure we know his first name," Tony said. "What's your take on that kid?"

"Owen?"

"Yeah, Owen." Tony settled back into his seat in the family room.

Jane's face contorted to an ugly scowl. "He's evil … I'm convinced he's involved in these deaths somehow. You should hold him until you figure it all out." Jane wouldn't relax. She glanced over to the hallway, waiting for a progress report.

"Are you serious?" Tony said, "He seems pretty harmless to me."

"I'm serious. He's the worst sort of scum. He spent one night here and bewitched my Selkie. He's part of this. I know it."

Tony remembered how the nearly catatonic Selkie sitting on the floor of her bedroom. _Bewitching_ was probably the best thing for her. "I don't think the department will let me hold someone on 'bewitched'. Give me some idea how he's involved and I'll question him." But not anytime soon – Owen could use a little bewitching himself.

"I'm not kidding," Jane said. "He knows more about esoteric arts than I do. The murders in the city didn't begin until after his arrival. They will continue as long as he is free."

Jane clearly despised that boy with a passion beyond reason. "Anyway about your father," Tony continued trying to change the subject. "Here's my theory on the suicide: It doesn't really take that much weight to hold someone's natural buoyancy underwater. He could have blown up a few balloons to keep the weight afloat while he swam out to the middle. A pin becomes a tool for suicide."

"The coroner bought that theory?"

Tony chuckled at his brilliance, "I even provided balloon fragments as evidence." He became a little more serious. "I don't know what happened to your father. I'm only trying to get the remains released." He handed Jane a business card. "Once you figure out what you want to do with him, give them a call and they will take care of everything for you."

Aileen strolled up behind them and placed her hand gently on Tony's shoulder. "I talked to her. Normal girl stuff – she feels abandoned, betrayed. It may take a few days of introspection, but she's on her way." Aileen hesitated before she turned to address Jane. "There's something I don't understand … why do you call her your sister?"

"What else would I call her?" Jane answered.

"I remember when she was born," Aileen said. "You missed almost half of eighth grade. I thought you were going to be held back a year."

"You're implying that I'm her mother?" Jane said. She stood up and started pacing the room like she was getting agitated. "That's absurd; I'm too young. In the eighth grade I was sick with walking pneumonia. You would think I would remember if I gave birth."

"Yeah, you would," Aileen said with a sigh. "Why don't we head out now, Tony? I'm going to make some more phone calls to surrounding towns. See if anyone has seen Javier. Later tonight I'm volunteering at the hospice." Her words were stilted and forced.

Tony got up and grabbed their coats. "Are you sure? You need to get some sleep."

"No rest for the weary," Aileen said. "I gotta keep busy."

"See you later, Jane," Tony said. "We'll check in on you. Don't forget that you owe me some clue about what to do about the steel mill. There was another death in town recently. A homeless guy, but it still wasn't necessary."

"I'm continuing my meditation," Jane said. "I'll let you know as soon as I have some idea." Under her breath she added, "It's that boy."

Aileen gave a passive wave and they headed down the stairs to the police car to drive home.

As soon as they pulled out of the alley. Aileen couldn't restrain herself. Emotions poured out uncontrollably. "You are such a smart man … a good detective," she said.

"Yeah, I know," Tony answered with exaggerated humility. "What did I get right this time?"

"I knew him. I can believe I ever admired that man. A pied piper … proclaiming the wisdom of Eastern philosophies with the charisma to wield them as a weapon." Aileen placed the palm of her wrist against her forehead trying to stem the emotions. "I am such a fuckin' idiot. She was one of my best friends for years, and I ignored everything. Damn it, this is all my fault." Aileen shook her head in blame. "Free love came with a price in that household."

"You were a kid. You didn't know any better."

"I should have reported it to someone. If only I recognized the signs. Justifiable homicide," Aileen said. "If she didn't kill him, I would have." Aileen tried to reclaim her professional demeanor.

"What about Owen?"

"Selkie misses him. He's about the first boy who's shown any interest in her. She feels betrayed and needy at the same time." Aileen answered taking pains to stay clinical in her assessment, but a pool of tears betrayed her professionalism. "I'm not sure what is truth and what is fantasy, but she claims that Jane tried to poison Owen."

"Jane certainly doesn't seem to like the kid," Tony said. "That might explain his retreat into la la land."

Aileen continued to maintain her tenuous grasp on unemotional clinical analysis. "No, that's not enough. He's experienced a true horror. Something most of us can't even imagine. He thinks he's worthless. Selkie's clinginess pushed him away. One guy shows interest in her and she's ready to start playing house."

"I think I would have enjoyed that as an eighteen year old."

"For the first few hours," Aileen said, "but it gets old fast. I told her not to push so hard. Be patient with him."

"I don't understand," Tony said. "If Selkie thinks Jane poisoned Owen, why would she stay at the apartment? They have the Barleysmith house on Goat Hill."

"She needs someone to fill that gaping hole of need. She barely knows anybody else," Aileen said. "I offered to take her out shopping tomorrow for a change of pace."

"What are you going to do? Buy makeup and stuff?"

Aileen chuckled at the idea. "I can't imagine the two of us sharing makeup secrets. She wants to purchase a swan of all things. She needs my help to get her a license."

**Abby**

"Why do I have to learn to climb when I can fly?" Javier whined at the base of the exterior mill wall. Outside the mill, Abby continued his nighttime lessons – give him a running start on his new life. Bypassing the years of self-education through which she suffered.

"You can't always fly." Abby said from halfway up the wall. "It takes a lot of energy to keep a sustained flight. Plus, if you fly, you might be seen. You want to stay hidden as much as possible – try not to draw attention to yourself."

"Your uncle doesn't worry about flying. He doesn't care if people see him." Javier tried to grip the wall again and failed. "This is stupid. I can't do it."

"My uncle hasn't been around for a hundred years. He doesn't understand their capabilities … their technology." Abby had no idea where her uncle was right now – out scrounging, trying to find a throne or something equally stupid. "There are wrinkles and cracks in the wall. Your fingers are strong enough to grip the crevices. You just need practice."

Javier pressed his fingers tight against the wall and pulled himself up a few inches. As soon as he raised one hand to pull himself higher he slid down the wall to the foundation. "This is goofy. It can't be done," he cried, ignoring the fact that Abby was half way up the wall.

She sighed with impatience. "Use the downspout. You can get a better grip there."

Javier looked at the rusty piping. "It's not strong enough. It will fall apart as soon as I grab it."

"Give it a try," Abby suggested. "You weigh a lot less than you used to. Your bones are hollow to help you fly."

Javier grabbed hold of the drain and began to pull himself up hand over hand. The pipe held despite the rust. "I'm doing it," Javier said. "This is pretty cool, but I still don't understand why I have to learn this. The other day I carried that old geezer up in the air and dropped him like a rock. Nobody saw anything. I thought he would make a bigger noise when he hit the ground. On the way he screamed like a little girl." The wind carried Javier's cackling laughter up to Abby.

The expression irritated her. "They don't need to scream." She wasn't sure why she was trying to help this little brat. "As soon as you bite into someone, you can sense their thoughts with a measure of control. You can take their pain away when they die."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because they won't make so much noise. And noise attracts attention." She maneuvered herself beside the downspout above Javier. She mulled over continuing this explanation. The answer didn't make complete sense to her either. "It's just the right thing to do. This is the last moment on Earth. It can be a moment of agony or euphoria. People should die in joy."

"I don't know," Javier said. "I enjoyed that scream. It's the first time in my life I felt that kind of strength. It was great! I want to be a force of power like your uncle. Why would I take the pain?" He paused in his thought – taking pleasure in the taunting. "Your friend was there, too. He's not so scary when he's running away."

"You are a stupid, little kid." _Power doesn't come from strength._ Abby was surprised to see that they were almost up to the top –and it suddenly annoyed her. The roof of the mill was a special, magical place. A place she shared only with Owen. Abby reached up above Javier's head, wrapped her talons around the downspout, and ripped it away from the wall.

A scream escaped Javier's lips as he hurtled to the ground. He fell forty feet and writhed in pain. Abby enjoyed the thud a little too much. _Javier was right … it was kind of fun._ "Aagh," he moaned. "Why did you make me fall?"

Abby flapped her wings and floated down. "Why would you fall," she growled while straddling Javier, "when you can fly?" She left him laying there and walked away. "You're on your own for the rest of the night. Don't follow me."

She scurried up the fence and leaped over the top. To her surprise Owen remained in Pueblo. His thoughts were slowly returning, but they were disturbed. He languished in a fog of despair and doubt.

Abby shouldn't have vented her frustrations on Javier, but he was convenient. It was the echo of Owen's thoughts that aggravated her. Disgust, hurt, and anger all radiated through the bond. Abby couldn't understand her own emotions, let alone his.

She had been making a lot of wrong choices lately … ones she barely understood. Javier was one of them. She could try to bend him to her will, like her uncle tried to do with her. Javier was weak, he would probably snap without even appreciating her mastery. Filled with love, he would praise her. But any admiration, any conversation would be false. It would be like talking to herself. Owen was another mistake. She pushed him away for his own safety. Yet, he seemed the worse for it.

And he was on the other side of the river.

She thought about him every night since he left. Followed him … worried about him. He seemed so lost. Most of his time was spent on the other side. She fought pangs of jealousy when he was with another girl. She wanted Owen to be happy … but not too happy. Since then, he was bereft of all emotion.

The few times he ventured onto this side, the east side of the river, she traced his path … hoping he would look up to see her, but knowing he shouldn't. The nights he spent on the west side of the river, Abby ventured all the way to the precipice, but no further. Frightened by the awesome power of the turbulent, flowing water, she couldn't bear to take that one next step.

As she had before, she stood at the east side of the Fourth Street Bridge and stared into the distance. She took several tentative steps. The bridge was wide, whereas the river was narrow. Seven lanes of railroad tracks and two small roads lay beneath her before the water's edge. A few minutes later she stood at the river's frontier … well past the center of the span. Off to her right she saw the solitary evergreen surrounded by the rushing water. In the grayness, it provoked a specter of hope.

She sensed the flow rushing beneath her – a few feet in front of the sidewalk where she stood. She considered the rest of the journey. Despite the short distance, it might as well been an impassable chasm of a thousand miles. If you gaze into an abyss long enough and hard enough, the abyss gazes back into you. Falling asleep on the bridge would be disastrous – she would remain until sunrise … too tired to even sense the warmth.

Owen needed her help. The pounding ache of his misery consumed her. And she desperately wanted to see him.

Abby backed up a few paces and took a running leap forward. She collapsed almost immediately. Pushing herself up to her knees, she struggled against the overwhelming deluge trying to drag her under. She searched to find the strength to complete this journey; _it's only maybe fifty feet._ She felt her cheek scrape against the cragged sidewalk. _ Must've dozed off for a minute. _She fought to grab hold of the crevices in the sidewalk and pull herself another few feet forward. But the current was too strong, and the concrete was cold and comforting. The inexorable fall into sleep took hold.

_Her dreams were wildly unfocused – an unsatisfied hunger for peace and happiness. Beyond the shadow of the Earth, Abby lost the urge to get up and cross the bridge. She lounged on a sunlit blanket of warmth next to a river bank. The burning sun washed over her, removing the chill from swimming in the tumultuous current of the river. Trout jumped out of the water cavorting for her pleasure. Erected next to Owen and Abby was a tent with the flap labeled "paradise." She reached out her hand to Owen and said, "Please follow me. You need to rest." His simple grin brought her contentment. Paradise indeed. But his hand slipped away. Owen wasn't here._

_A bright light came into the field of her vision. "Am I dead?" Abby wondered aloud. "Am I in heaven?"_

"No," A voice spoke to her. "Does this look like heaven? You're in Pueblo. Do you need some help little lady?"

"You are warm … like the sun," Abby said. "It's been a long time. Please, help me. I need to cross the bridge."

Hands reached underneath her back and knees and lifted her. Shrouded in the yellow glow of streetlights, she saw his face. It was the weathered face of a kind man who had witnessed the pain of too much life. On the other side of the river, wakefulness slowly returned. She reached up and brushed his gray beard with her fingers. "Thank you," she said.

"No trouble at all," he said. He placed her back down on the ground. "Some bridges are just too difficult to cross on your own."

"Will you still be here when I return?" Abby asked.

"Don't be long," he said. "I can't stay forever."

Abby rushed off until she found the building where Owen was staying. She climbed up the outside wall to the second level. He was sleeping just beyond the windowpane, but it was sealed shut. She couldn't open it and request to enter. She rubbed her fingers over the shadowy outline of his image through the translucent glass. She craved his touch.

Abby clung to the window sill and concentrated on his thoughts. They were a jumbled mess of colors twisting in the wind. For hours she stayed – as long as she dared – to try to help him resolve the patterns. Owen needed to solve the puzzle of his darkness, but some puzzles are too difficult to solve on your own. One layer became focused – a layer of solid blue. She hoped it was enough.

"Owen," she whispered, "I can't begin to penetrate the mysteries of my life." She was saddened by that revelation. "I don't understand the hold I have on you. I release you. Be gone and live."

That was it … all she had to offer for six years of his care. She returned to the mill via the Fourth Street Bridge. The kind old man was there to carry her across without a thought or complaint.

In the mill she found her uncle enjoying the comfort of a leather Barcalounger. One he scrounged out of a waste dump. Javier curled up next to him on the floor. "Chaton noir, I've found my throne. I've never felt anything quite like it." He pulled the lever that allowed him to recline. "A seat to make petitioners humble."

"C'est magnifique," Abby said to humor him.

"My father had one just like it," Javier said. "He used to watch football games in it."

"I guess he was an important man," Jean-Louis said. Javier shrugged. "And the literature of this period is so colorful." He held up a frayed paperback novel, "The Queen of the Damned … I do not believe this author ever met her. She's nothing like this." He changed the subject. "What adventures did you experience this evening?"

"Nothing in particular," Abby said. "I just wandered around. I'm going to turn in now." She climbed into her bin cloaked with the memory of Owen.

"Abigail, my little one, you can't hide anything from me," Jean-Louis said. "You've been across the river. You'll have to explain to me how you accomplished that feat. I haven't seen any canoes or tribesmen."

Abby ignored her uncle's provocation. She held tight to the wrinkled image of her father's picture and the solved Rubik's cube. They smelled warm and sweet. As she drifted off to sleep in the bin, she thought of the other man – the man on the bridge, not her uncle. She realized something odd about him. She wasn't tempted by his blood – she couldn't smell any at all.

**Owen**

Owen woke to the overpowering stench of his shelter mattress. That he noticed the odor at all was a change for the better. He slept all night and into the early evening. His most restful sleep in his recent memory, and the dreams were heartening. In the chasm between fully asleep and fully awake Owen held onto to the other smell – the flowery sweet cinnamon smell of her hair after washing. He tried to shake the feeling that she was here – right outside the window.

After a few minutes, Owen rose from his mattress wearing a rugby shirt and denim jeans. Selkie had bought these for him. _How long ago was that?_ His clothes were wrinkled and reeked of sweat.

After collecting his things and collecting himself, Owen wandered into the cafeteria common room. "Hi Owen; how are you doing?" Gabriella asked glancing up from her school textbooks.

Owen gave a mild nod in response, but was otherwise quiet in his solemnity. Gabriella seemed to accept it as a rejection and returned to her studies which suited Owen just fine. Billy hung around reading a comic book. The dining area was otherwise empty.

He grabbed a sample of stew that had been cooking too long and ladled it into a disposable bowl. Fat pooled on the surface congealing into to a thick, unappetizing, crusty slime. Sitting down at a table, Owen purposefully swallowed the stew one spoonful at a time. The flavor of meat and potatoes consumed him – he had forgotten about taste for the last few days or weeks.

He was startled by Gabriella lifting her textbook and slamming it down on her table. "Dammit! What the hell is normality?" Owen glanced up from his stew. "I will never understand acid-base chemistry."

Billy took a look at the chemistry text, flipping through pages. "Don't ask me. None of this looks normal."

"The first time I worked through the problem I calculated an answer of ten milliliters; now it's 3000 liters. Neither one is close to the answer guide."

"Let's take a break to clear your thoughts," Billy suggested. He glanced at Owen as though the silence of his presence made him uncomfortable. "We need to clean the bathrooms and sleeping areas."

Gabriella and Billy rose from the table and headed to the closet to get some cleaning supplies. "Can I try it?" Owen asked. His voice creaked from disuse.

"What?" Gabriella asked.

"Can I try the chemistry problem?"

"How far did you get in school?" Billy asked.

"Seventh grade."

"You think you can work a tough college chemistry problem after finishing just seven years of school?"

Owen shrugged. "I didn't finish."

Gabriella walked over to the table and picked up her textbook and supplies, "Let him try. He can't do much worse than me."

They left Owen alone to try to fathom the chemistry problem. The question started, "You have two mixtures – one a two normal sodium hydroxide solution and the other a 35% hydrochloric acid solution." The problem asked how much base was needed to dilute the acid to a pH of 6 at STP.

_What the..._, thought Owen. _I have no idea_. He started with the basics – trying to understand what each term meant. STP was no big deal – it stood for "standard temperature and pressure"; normality was similar to molarity, and least for sodium hydroxide. _Who's Avogadro? He must be a popular guy to have his number listed in a college textbook. _Each step of the way, Owen took notes on the terms and equations involved. _It's just like a puzzle_.

He was alone with the puzzle; Gabriella's chemistry problem distracted him from his troubles – an island in the maelstrom. He exercised seldom used crevices of his mind. More colors snapped into place. He derived strength and confidence from understanding how Abby approached problems. She was right there with him in the room, helping him to learn. By the time Gabriella and Billy returned from their rounds, Owen understood all of the necessary definitions and equations. He had them listed and detailed on a separate page.

"How's in coming?" Gabriella asked.

"Pretty good." Owen said. "Do you have a calculator I could borrow? I'm having a little trouble doing the logs in my head."

She handed him her TI scientific calculator while Billy said, "I have a little trouble with logs in my head, too." He rubbed his ear in mock pain. Gabriella gave him a scathing look.

Owen punched through some numbers on the calculator. He checked the work and reported, "Two and a half liters. I'm pretty sure that's the answer."

Gabriella checked the answers on her guide. "That's the right answer." she declared in surprise. "How'd you do that?"

"Wow, Brainiac. Maybe I didn't pay close enough attention in seventh grade science. I had no idea you knew anything about normality," Billy said cleaning up the crockpot of stew.

Owen spent a few minutes showing Gabriella how to solve the problem. Embarrassed from the attention, he had trouble walking through the explanation. Finally, Gabriella coaxed him through his stuttering until she thought she understood the approach, "Thank you, Owen. This is a big help."

She collected her belongings in her backpack and returned to Owen's table where she sat across from him. She surrounded his hand in both of hers in a friendly gesture, but he recoiled from the touch – it was too close, too affectionate. With a resigned sigh Gabriella said, "Owen, I've been searching for drug treatment programs. The Denver programs are backlogged for six months, but if you can be patient, we'll get you in." She stood up to walk away from the table. Before she left completely she added, "You may even be able to get a GED."

"Blaise is dead," Owen said. "I can't leave; I can't go to Denver."

"Yes, Blaise is dead, and it's a tragedy. But you're not dead. You should continue to live your life. Think about it, okay?"

"See you later, Brainiac," Billy said. "Have to endure the long walk across the city to escort Gabriella back to her dorms."

"Is that across the river?" Owen asked.

With casual confidence Billy said, "Of course it is." Then they he headed out the door.

Owen whispered, "Don't go," and pulled the baggie full of rice out of his pocket. "You should take this," he said. But they were already gone.

Voices began to fill the void of Owen's emptiness. First Abby, aggravated with worry and contempt, but there were other echoes, too. He did not understand those voices of insecurity and hunger. The night was still young and Owen felt the merciless draw of that powder. It would quiet the voices and deaden the pain of Blaise's death.

Owen sat in his chair alone with his empty Styrofoam bowl in silent detachment. If he were to understand his addiction, study it the way he studied that chemistry problem, he would know that his cravings mirrored those of Abby. Each day, he lusted after that powder a little more than the day before. After a few weeks, the ache became unbearable, and he searched for rationalizations to justify his need.

_There is nothing wrong with it._ _ I'm free to make my own choices_. It was a choice he couldn't resist. He needed it. A puzzle he needed to solve, but the solution would wait for another day.

His challenge for tonight was that he still didn't have any money. He left the remnants of a half-eaten, stale diner roll on the table and left the cafeteria. He barely noticed the click of the self-locking door behind him. He was going to have to find another place to sleep tonight. Another problem for another time.

Avoiding all of his normal routes, he followed his instincts. They were spot on. He found a body in the shadows of the city, half-buried in a snow bank. Steam rose from the corruption of the neck wound. A fresh kill, but Owen didn't care about the blood. He dug through the snow, searching the man's pockets and found his wallet. Filled with credit cards and a license, it lacked one important ingredient – cash. He tossed Hayo Steen's wallet to the ground in frustration when he noticed the gold ring on his finger. _He has no use for that anymore. I live off of the waste of others. _

At the lower level of the parking garage, his offering was met with contempt, "What do we look like? A pawn shop. Cash only, dipshit."

B Street was another option. He ventured over to the land of drugs and honey. The negotiation made no sense to Owen; he didn't understand the dealer's words. "You have the right to remain silent. You're under arrest for possession and intent to purchase a controlled substance."


	32. Chapter 32

Note: Chapters 31, 32 & 33 were once Chapter 17

Chapter 32

Path to Hope

**Tony Sacco**

"You may be the best friend I have," Tony said. He found himself spending more and more time in the temporary cell holding facilities speaking to Victor. He just completed processing a drunk and disorderly who posted bail. The basement was once again quiet with the exception of their semi-permanent resident. Usually, they spoke about nothing important … the Forty-niners dynasty in football, the prospects for the Denver Nuggets, and, occasionally, the ravages of AIDS.

"That's okay with me," Victor answered with a hacking cough. "All my friends are dead."

His radio handset crackle interrupted his response. "Sacco, I need you to return to the station, right now." The chief bellowed into radio without any of the usual protocols. The tone of his voice was anxious and excited.

"I'm just downstairs in the basement. Is everything all right? Did you hear something about Javier?"

"No, nothing like that. There has been another death in town with the same M.O. as Lake Pueblo. Earlier today another victim was found – in the brush near the motor speedway. That makes eleven, so far. We have a suspect in custody. Come to conference room one when you arrive."

"Looks like I have to go," Tony said to Victor. "I'll stop in and check on you later."

Passing through the lobby, Tony saw the news coverage of the city building on the monitor. Apparently, word got out. News crews surrounded the city center just in time for the eleven o'clock report. The reporters had already linked Barleysmith to the new cases. Whether there was a connection or not was immaterial for the evening deadline. The newly elected deputy mayor (and current interim mayor) answered questions with his standard, vague 'tough on crime' speech. According to him, the deaths appeared to be related to a gang initiation rite. And they will be cracking down on illegal immigrants to make sure it stops.

Arriving at conference room 1, Tony was surprised to find the mishmash of collected police officers in attendance. Along with the chief, Detective Guerard sat stoically. Beside him was a bearded, excited Curtis Gann – a young vice officer. For some reason, vice always seems to get the newbies right out of the academy. Detective Towns and Petchy from the Pueblo force were there, too.

After a few words of casual greeting, Tony sat down at the conference table and asked, "You have someone in custody for murder … what's vice have to do with it?"

The chief slid a folder over to him open to a page with a young kids photograph, "Have you ever seen this kid before?"

Tony gaped at the photograph in stunned disappointment. Jane's words came back to him. _He's part of this_. He had this kid in custody once before. One punch to the chest and he had to release him. That was the night of another murder. _Could they be related? I need to think._ "I've seen him around. What kind of evidence is there?"

Gann spoke up. "He tried to purchase drugs using the victim's wedding band. It still had blood on it."

"You didn't touch it did you?" Tony asked, worried about illness.

"No, do you think I'm an idiot?" Gann said. "He also had this." Gann slide over an evidence bag. Inside was another plastic bag with a strange, white crystalline substance."

"What is it?"

"With our equipment smashed, we have to send it to Denver for analysis. But I figure it is some sort of newfangled narcotic - a highly concentrated form of cocaine or something like that. Over two hundred grams. I could bust him for intent to distribute."

Tony reached over to pick up the bag. "Do you mind?" he asked indicating a desire to open the bag. Gann shook his head no and Tony continued, "It's hard to imagine a need to buy drugs … when he had some in his possession." Tony reached into the bag and took a sample of the grain. "Rice," he said. A combination of groans and laughter echoed around the room. "You just busted someone for possession of rice." This had gotten wet somewhere. "Did you ever look at rice after it has been cooked and then allowed to dry? The sugars form spiderweb-like crystals in plastic."

After a little more discussion, Guerard was asked to take over the lead on the reopened investigation. Guerard asked for Tony's assistance. He studied the folder outside the two-way mirror of the interrogation room. _How could that kid be involved in this_? Tony watched the jittery waste of a boy. "I had him in custody the night of the murder on Lamskin. I thought he had nothing to do with it. He's just a kid."

"Did you pick him up before or after the murder?" Guerard asked.

"After … but before it was discovered," Tony was angry at himself. If he hadn't hit the kid, he would have arrested him. By now they would know of his innocence. "I don't think he has anything to do with the murders," Tony suggested, perhaps hopefully. He trusted his intuition on people. "I think he is a victim in this, just like the others."

"Let's find out," Guerard said opening the door. Once inside, he demanded of the suspect, "Were you involved in the death of Hayo Steen?"

The kid delayed his answer, forcing his thoughts into focus. "What's a Hayo Steen?" he asked.

After several hours of interrogation, they were no closer to understanding this boy. At least they figured out his name – Owen, not Kenny.

Tony gathered a little shut eye reclining in his office desk chair. A few hours into his sleep, he was awakened by a loud screech from outside. He found Guerard racked out on the conference room floor, and they both headed out side. _Holy shit! What the hell is that? _It looked like the animal Tony had seen in the sky, except this time there was two of them. Together they crashed into the ground. And a lot of people, including a few news crews, witnessed the incident.

Tony wasn't sure what sort of creature it was, but it had the unmistakable look of an alibi for Owen. The alibi was confirmed when they found six bodies in the morning. Owen was charged and released to his own recognizance, but he had to run the gauntlet through the rapidly growing crowd.

He had the foresight to ask Gabriella to rescue Owen. "You may want to come over here to get him," Tony suggested over the phone. "It's a madhouse in front of the government center today. In case you are wondering, his name is Owen," he told her.

**Abby**

Abby crawled down the walls into the parking garage. Behind the smoky glass door of the vestibule, she found five young men of various shapes and colors enjoying their late evening gathering. She opened the door and asked, "What manner of place is this?"

"What manner of place are you looking for?" said the one of the youths_. The leader, perhaps_? He had cropped dark hair and wore a gold choker. His muscles were barely restrained within the confines of his white undershirt.

"Can you travel from here? Is this a gateway of some sort?" she asked. "I followed him here several times, but he disappears."

"If you have the cash, we have the ways to make this world disappear," said one of the men. "Solid, liquid, or smoke." He puffed on his cigarette.

The other guys laughed at the joke. Another one of them pretended to undo his fly, "Why don't you come away with me little girl? I have something you can smoke right here?"

Another one the youths laughed and joked. "That's gross, Marco, she's just a little kid."

"I like to train them when their young," Marco joked full of bravado.

_Five guys, I think I can handle them_. Abby entered through the glass door and stopped in front of the stainless elevator doors. "Where do these go?" she asked.

"They go up; they go down; they go all around."

The leader put his hand on Abby's shoulder. More serious than they had been so far, "What do you want kid? If you want to hang out with some toughs, you have to pay the price."

"I just want to know where they gateway is. He comes here and disappears for days on end. Except for tonight. Tonight, I felt him leave through the way he came ... angry and disappointed. You should treat him better," she said. "You shouldn't have made him angry."

One of the guys … the one who liked to play with his fly said, "I'll take her for a ride through the elevator gateway." He was jumpy and nervous. His eyes were glazed over and bloodshot. He depressed the up button. The elevator light plinked with the red up arrow and an opening door. He guided Abby in through sliding door.

Once inside Abby said, "It's just an elevator. I'm not stupid."

When the door shut, she consumed her fill of the dealer – drawing in more than ten pints of the viscous, bitter fluid. She was surprised by the energy contained inside. The virus throbbed within her, devouring the youth's spirit. She sensed the narcotic racing through her veins, feeding the monster within. Usually, it grew tired after a meal, but not this time. It craved more … much more.

The elevator door opened to a look of horror and surprise on the other four. The virus demanded a tribute, and the youths paid with their lives in rapturous, unchecked abandon.

Abby continued to feed when the door to the vestibule swung wide. The image of Jean-Louis appeared in the entryway. "Abigail, my little one, I see you've enjoyed a sumptuous feast. I was called by your lust only to discover your skin pink with blood fat. Surely you wish to share." 

_Time to play._ Invigorated by the pulsing blood, she leaped at her uncle, nearly knocking him over, and tore into the skin beneath his collar. She felt the pain resonate through the bond. Snarling and snapping, she ached to increase the intensity of his anguish.

He cackled from the enjoyment of the struggle. His head wrapped around hers, straining in its reach. She knew the ache of his desire. His teeth shredded the muscles at the base of her neck. He bit deeper and drew out his own measure of blood. Each one tried to reach the other's jugular, but the angle was off. It didn't matter; the blood flow was more than gratifying.

Wings sprung from her neck and flapped in a fury of depravity. Together, they flew out of control, spinning in a tight struggle. They smashed into one of the concrete pillars holding up the parking garage. But they didn't stop. Abby drew blood from her uncle, while Jean-Louis sucked from her. Blood circulated between the two of them in a fit of carnal ecstasy.

Into the sky they flew. Above the city they fought in careless disregard for the curious eyes beneath them. In a battle for dominance, one tried to take mastery of the other. Finally, Abby remembered the source of her self-loathing. Owen would have stopped her. She relented– her uncle enjoyed the agony and the bloodlust, far too much. She restrained herself from giving into his joy. Narcotics circulating in the veins of those youths overwhelmed her. Bringing him pain was a surrender to his gratification. She relinquished control as a means to end it.

Abby relaxed her jaw, but Jean-Louis held on tight in victory. She struggled in vain to pull away from his tenacious grip. With a loud screech, she flapped her wings ferociously and aimed toward the ground. They plummeted in tandem to the street beneath them.

_Thud_. Jean-Louis hurtled away from her. He rolled over to his side and grinned with delight. "That was intoxicating. A hundred years – I have missed you Abigail. I love the freedom," he laughed, sucking in gasps of breath, as though he needed them. "You're mine now. No more willful behavior. We need to find time play more often."

A car swerved to avoid collision on the nearly empty streets. After jamming on his breaks and swerving, the driver jumped out. "Holy shit, are you guys okay?"

Abby raced back to the mill oblivious to her uncle's actions against the new victim. Her wounds were already starting to knit following the altercation. _No, I'm not yours_, Abby thought. This was a strength her uncle would never understand. _When I let go, I won._

**Owen**

"Did you hit me?" Owen asked rubbing the sore spot on his forehead. "You should have hit me harder."

"No, it wasn't me, this time." After she led him back to the shelter, Gabriella helped dress the wounds caused by crowds and their wayward rocks. He once again tried to sort through his troubles only to find himself in the midst of a tiny crowd of breakfast diners. Voices in his head were quiet this morning after their blood thirsty feast the night before.

He never did procure his supply of drugs to help him through the week. He needed them, more than ever. His head swam the aftereffects of the rock hitting his scalp. Lack of narcotic support left him nervous and aggravated. He swallowed his thick, sandy, tasteless breakfast without much care. It wasn't so much that he couldn't taste it; the generic grits simply had no flavor. Gabriella left him alone at the table to get food or put away the first aid Owen … he wasn't aware that she rose and left.

He finished his meal, unsure of what to do next when he noticed the shy, tentative creature – the one he abandoned – make a surprise entrance into the shelter common room. She peered at him with troubled eyes through tortoise shell lenses. A huge white swan sashayed in behind her on a leash, flapping its wings and squawking.

Owen was paralyzed by the unexpected presence. Selkie in the shelter clashed with the culture in a way that he couldn't to cope. She didn't belong to this world – with or without the bird. He needed to say something to her … to apologize for this wasted shell of a friend. He wanted to thank her for coming to see him, wondering how she found him, all the while knowing he didn't deserve a moment of comfort. Any thought he wanted to express froze on his tongue. His leg bounced up and down with trepidation.

She sat down next to him, placed her hand his shoulder; then, just as quickly, pulled it away. "Hey, Owen," she said looking around the common room. "Nice place you have here." For anybody else, Owen would have thought she was mocking him. But Selkie said it as though she meant it.

Neither of them focused on the other. Apprehensive, hoping for acceptance, her glances bounced furtively around the room; everywhere rather than Owen. He was busy staring down at the floor; studying his feet. He couldn't bear the shame of looking into her eyes. He whispered, "Hey."

She placed her hand on his knee and stilled the frantic vibrations. She rubbed her thumb over the same spot on his knee, as though there dirty spot which needed cleaned. "What happened?" she asked. "Where did you go?"

Consumed by his own self-disgust, Owen had no idea what she was doing here; how she found him. "Selkie, how can you stand my cowardice?"

She grabbed his hand, interlacing her fingers in his. They warmed him with a fire of friendship. "Because I choose to."

"Why?" he wondered. "I thought you were going to stop making bad choices."

With the loop of the leash draped into her elbow, she rubbed his forearm and gripped his hand tighter. "Doing nothing is making a choice. I was wallowing in my own self-pity. So, I threw my arms around the wings of fate and embraced her." She chuckled. "I swear it is going to be the death of me." The swan dug into her coat pockets, searching for something. She pulled out a handful of corn and dumped it on the floor. The swan and Kit were fixated until it ate them all.

"Twenty-seven," Owen said. "Twenty-seven kernels. That's all I needed to do and we would have been fine."

"I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"The rice." Owen noticed others around the room watching them, studying them – stunned at Owen putting two sentences together. _Or maybe they're staring at the swan._ He kept his voice at a whisper to avoid the raw ache of embarrassment. "All we had to do was get across the bridge, and we would be safe. That's it. I was so frightened. I couldn't even move to help."

He pulled the bag of rice out of his pocket. "I never used it. It could have given us thirty seconds – at least." His tears welled up in frustration. "I am such a fucking coward, and now Blaise is dead because of it."

Selkie removed her hand from his fingers and placed it around his neck. She pulled him closer and kissed him on his forehead wound. "Was he a good man?"

"He was the best of men. Much better than me."

"You just haven't figured out what makes you great, yet. We can work on that." She pulled away from his forehead with a frustrated groan while continuing to hold onto his hand.

"Why'd you pull away?" Owen asked.

"Uuhh, this is so difficult," Selkie complained. "I'm not supposed to be too clingy. She says it pushes you away."

"She does, huh?" Momentarily distracted from his pain, Owen was a little off-balance that someone was talking about them like this. "I don't mind … really. It's who you are."

She reached her arm around his neck with one arm and held his hand between his knees with the other. They sat there still for awhile. Owen wondered about her companion. Finally he said something about it. "What's with the duck?"

"Sanctus? He has a long neck for a duck. You want to help me finish his walk."

Owen pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, keeping hold of Selkie's hand. "I could use some fresh air." _Away from the stares_.

They wandered out of the shelter in no particular direction. The morning was brisk, but warmer than it had been. They walked in silence for awhile without a word to each other. Owen felt like passersby on the street were laughing at him. A bicyclist nearly fell when he veered away from the unusual trio. Owen flinched when a police cruiser drove by … _Are they searching for me again?_

Owen stumbled when the approached the Main Street Bridge. The river level was high with furious rapids. He gawked at the next bridge over, just a few blocks away, framed by the towering smoke stack. Memories of a disastrous night flooded his worries.

"Come on Sanctus," Selkie said, "Across the bridge." Owen asked about the river. "It's been raining for a few days in the mountains," Selkie said. "It's more of a steady drizzle, but it is enough to melt the snow."

"It looks ruthless," Owen said. The raging torrent was speaking to him.

They continued to walk along the streets. Past the police station downtown and it's angry crowds. Once again, Owen wondered about those staring at him. _What was wrong with me_? Until he understood - the people were blind to him. "So why do we have the swan?" Owen asked.

"It's for the poem," Selkie answered. "He's going to help us solve it."

"How do you figure? Is he from the faerie land?"

"Don't be silly," Selkie said, "he's a swan. It's my saint." She sighed. "The best I could come up with."

Owen was stunned by the revelation. "You're not going to kill it are you?"

"You know it is just a swan … right?" Selkie said. "I read the news. It isn't just Rufus, others are dying, too. Ever since I let loose the evil. I have to try."

They wound through the streets of Pueblo and up Goat Hill. Owen was lost in his thoughts. He couldn't imagine for a moment that Selkie felt responsible for the deaths around the city, but she did. "I thought you couldn't remember who gave you the poem," Owen said. "How can you trust it?"

"I think it was the black dove," Selkie said. "I'm not sure why, but I believe I can trust it."

"Wasn't he the angel of death?"

"But the angel of death isn't be evil," Selkie argued. "He helps guide souls to heaven. That's a good thing, right?"

"I guess," Owen said. _As long as he gets his payment_. He stumbled for a moment; surprised to be wandering up the driveway to Selkie's house. "I guess we're here," he said. "Thanks for the walk."

"You can come in, if you want." She could tell by his reaction that Owen was hesitant at the prospect … nervous. "Don't feel like you have to," she said with a sigh. "I'll be patient."

"Thanks," Owen said with a weight lifted off his shoulder. As long as it was his choice, there seemed to be less pressure. "I'll come in."

They delivered the swan to the basement, padlocking him into one of his shackles like he was a dog on a chain. She fed him some more corn and some additional seeds to the white dove in the cage.

Upstairs, while Selkie baked a pineapple pizza, Owen checked his forehead wound in the mirror. It looked worse than it felt after the long day of walking. Selkie found a Bandaid in her supplies and placed it over the cut with a kiss.

"It's good," Owen said taking a warm bite of the fresh pizza. "How is the rest of the poem coming?"

"I have the dove for the Paraclete," (Owen was surprised she didn't take the dove on the walk, too.) "but I can't figure out the 'essence of hope'."

"A cedar tree," Owen said. "A cedar tree means hope." That's what Erasmus said.

"You may be right," Selkie said pleased by his understanding. "So the essence must be the smoke. That makes complete sense," she said. "We're supposed to concentrate the blood of the swan in the fire from burning cedar."

They spent the rest of the evening dissecting each line of the poem. Selkie was stumped by the 'vessel of grace', but she had some ideas. "A vessel can be almost anything," she said, "from a boat to a body. I have to do some more research. And I know what hyssop is, but I don't understand the phrase 'hyssop aspergil'."

As the evening grew late, Kit once again grew flush at the thought of sleeping. He wasn't sure why, but sleeping together seemed like a commitment he wasn't ready for. Perhaps noticing his embarrassment, Selkie offered, with a hint of disappointment, "I'll be patient. I won't push you. There are plenty of bedrooms. I can prepare a guest room, if you want … or you can head back to the shelter."

"Thanks," Owen said. "You don't have to go to any trouble. If you give me the bedding, I can get the room together."

"No trouble at all," Selkie said with a grin. "We'll do it together."

The bedroom was freezing before Selkie brought to life the old style radiator. Flustered because he chose not to sleep in Selkie's room, Owen was saved from talking by her nonstop nervous chatter. Finally the bed was made, and Selkie brought him his pajamas and a change of clothes. "You left them here last time. I saved them for you." _Ouch!_

Selkie left, shutting the door behind her allowing Owen to change his clothes. He glanced around the room while getting dressed. Sheer curtains allowed the light of the full moon in through the window. The room was sparse with colonial style furniture – a bed, nightstand and dresser. The nightstand contained an electric, faux-oil, crystal lamp and a clock. Other than the main door, two other solid wood doors led from the room – a small closet and a bathroom.

He heard a knock at the door. It was Selkie in a short, powder blue night shirt. "I have your toothbrush and toothpaste," she said depositing them in the bathroom. "Thanks," he answered.

Owen barely climbed under the bedspread when he heard another knock at the door. I noticed you didn't have any towels. I brought you some for the morning and a couple extra blankets, too." "Thanks."

Owen lay awake in his bed trying to enjoy the comfort, all the while disturbed that it was given to him so easily. He didn't deserve it. Out there, suffering through another day in her cold, dark bin Abby was fretful and irritated. He heard another knock at the door. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Umm … I was just going downstairs for some water. Did you want some?"

"Selkie?" Owen said.

"Yes?"

"Why don't you sleep in here with me? It will be warmer."

"I'd love to," she said jumping under the covers with him. She moved her body up snug to his back and wrapped her arms around her torso. Owen reached behind him and placed his hand on her upper thigh. "But I'm not taking my clothes off … and no touching," Selkie insisted. Owen rapidly removed his hand. She took hold of his hand and placed it back on her thigh. "You can touch me there. Just not anywhere 'inappropriate.' "

"Maybe you can draw me a picture."

"I can do that!" Selkie said excitedly, jumping out of the bed.

"No … no. I get it," Owen said. That was the sort of picture he didn't really need to see.

Trying to sleep, their talking diminished. The ticking clock overpowered the silence. Owen laid on his side for a few minutes, completely distracted by breasts pressing into his back – not wanting to move in fear of upsetting the delicate balance – at the same time losing sensation in a few parts of his body. Finally, he gave in and rolled over. He rested his arm in the curves of her waist. "Selkie, what are we doing here?"

"I'm trying to fall asleep," she laughed with her staccato chuckle. "But I'm having a tough time settling myself down."

"I meant as far as the poem. Why are we trying to solve it?" Owen remembered his first visit to the Blazing Crescent. "When I first saw you … I asked you to develop a cure for blood cravings."

"Wouldn't that be wonderful?" Selkie said.

"Well, yeah," Owen said, "but if I cure Abby … where does that leave you?"

"I don't understand," Selkie said. "She's your friend, isn't she? Wouldn't you like to find a cure?"

"Of course I would. But what about you? What would you get out of cure for Abby?"

In the glow of the moonlight, Selkie looked pensive … she still didn't understand Owen's doubts. "I hope she would be my friend, too." As though that answered everything. She played with the collar on Owen's shirt. "And I need to face my demons."

But for Owen, it answered nothing. A possible conflict between his life with Selkie and his life with Abby would explode like two colliding stars. Finally, he resigned himself to realization that it's not as though it was going to matter anyway. There was little chance in a swan curing Abby.

His thoughts on the perpetual child, Abby, distracted him for a time from the rapid heartbeat of the much more alive … more adult body resting next to him. In the moonlight her chest rose and fell with each breath. Her eyelashes flitted while she tried to sleep and her tempting lips were parted just a hair. He always knew what Abby was thinking, but with Selkie he could only wonder.

Finally, Selkie let him know with a low groan. "This is so tough," she said. "Lying next to you like this."

"If it would help," Owen suggested, "you can take off your clothes. I don't mind."

"Shut up and go to sleep … you little perv." Owen was never going to understand girls. In the light through the window, he could see her smile. That simple comment seemed to relax her. Before long he noticed the slower, deeper breaths of slumber overtake her. But Owen couldn't relax … he couldn't stop thinking about the years he spent with Abby and what they meant to him. And he couldn't stop thinking about the idea of Selkie snuggled close to him - with or without her nightshirt.

At least for one night, Owen was at peace. True to her word, Selkie didn't pressure him. He was free to sleep at the shelter or at the house. Some nights he chose to – just to prove to himself that it was okay, and to prove to Selkie that he would return. But freedom builds its own kind of prison.


	33. Chapter 33

Note: Chapters 31, 32 & 33 were once Chapter 17

Chapter 33

Nathaniel and Angelica

**Jane**

"I've brought music. Is that okay?" Jane asked of the mortician at the Gardens of Memory Funeral home. She held up a manually created cassette tape with her father's name scrawled on the side.

"Of course, madam. Many people wish to send their loved ones off accompanied by restful melodies of music. You'll find a cassette player in the crematorium for the tape." They completed the paperwork and arranged for payments. "Wasn't there another relative?"

"No, just me. His other child is a minor. I don't want her to see this." The mortician led her into the incinerator area where they found a decorated wooden casket prepared for the final sendoff. The casket lay on casters for easy transfer into the furnace. Chairs were set up for viewing of the cremation through a window. "I'd like to see the body."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," the mortician said. "The body isn't prepared for viewing." He could see Jane's hesitance at the answer. "It is not in fit condition."

"I don't care," Jane said. She pointed to the casket. "Open it. I want to spend some time with the deceased … my father."

The mortician rubbed his hands together. "Please Miss Mosi, I beg of you. The body is not even dressed."

Jane was insistent. But the casket lid was sealed tight with twenty massive bolts. Finally, the mortician consented. He found an assistant to remove fasteners with a power drill and then help him remove the lid. The process was laborious and time consuming. The mortician took great pains to elaborate on the difficulty through each and every step.

His body rested under a thin, white sheet without cushions or padding. The mortician lifted the sheet, exposing the face. It was mottled purple with pale lips. The skin was unnaturally pulled tight over the skull with sinuous wrinkles of excess flesh. "I want to be alone," Jane said.

"How long do you think you'll be?" the mortician asked staring at his wristwatch. "I have other appointments."

"I hope you have other ovens," Jane said. "I can't put a clock on prayer." She moved one of the padded wooden chairs over next to the casket. The mortician and his assistant left her alone with her father. Jane turned the deadbolt with a click, securing the door behind them. She lowered the blinds, isolating them from the intrusiveness of the outside world.

Jane walked around the casket and stroked his face with love of six years past. It didn't feel like her father, at all. It had no give or softness to it. She slapped her father's face with the full frenzy of her passion. "Fuckin' bastard," she said. "I told you to stay away from her." His stubborn cheeks refused to redden at the insult.

This was not enough. She stood on top of the chair so that she could get a better view. She leaned and kissed her father square on the lips. His lips failed to respond to the touch. She tried to push them with her fingers to strengthen the lips; to reinforce the softness, but it didn't help.

Finally, she drew back the starched white sheet and studied her father. Sinew at the wrists was firm with jagged muscle and skin extending from where his hands once were. She never understood him. He used to hold her with those hands … caress her. She longed for that embrace. She lifted up his right arm and rubbed the forearm beneath the stump. "We were happy. I loved you. Why wasn't that enough?"

Before long, Jane twisted the lock and opened the door to a crowd of people waiting for the next service. "I'm finished," she said with just the right amount of tears.

The flustered mortician restored the lid and only two screws. He shoved the casket into the furnace and animated the blast of heat at its highest setting. Jane watched her father burn through the observation window without tears or pity. It was no good. Nothing could satisfy her. It was like saying goodbye to a piece of driftwood ... a cold, wet log.

"Didn't you have some music?" the mortician asked her.

"Oh, right," she said. She rushed over to the tape and pressed the on button. A carefully chosen song seemed appropriate. The mortician looked horrified as the rock song blared over the cassette speakers. "I'm burnin', I'm burnin', I'm burnin' for you."

She stared at the flaming casket through the observation window. It gave her an idea. This is how to fix everything.

An hour later, Aileen led her into the Sacco house. "I'm here to speak with Tony," Jane said at the doorway.

She met Tony in his leather covered den. "Is this about the murders?" Tony asked. Jane nodded. "Let me get Guerard." Tony reached for his phone and called the operator at the Pueblo Howard Johnson Motor Inn. A few minutes later Guerard was on his way.

**Owen**

He could never win. Owen found an old deck of cards in the lost and found of the shelter and started playing. The quiet sound of solitary dining waxed and waned during his game. He tried to play solitaire, but it was challenging in a deck with only forty-nine cards. He never won.

Billy had left for good, and Owen almost didn't notice. One night Billy was complimenting him on his chemistry skills, the next he was dead. Trapped by the frenzied stupor of addiction, Owen could barely find it within himself to care.

Possessed by the echo of Abby's blood cravings, Owen needed to satisfy his own. Wealthy from a new-found pair of silver candlesticks – discovered during an expedition through Selkie's house – he located a reputable drug dealer in town. It turns out, everyone knew where to look. He just had to ask.

The terminal collision between his drug high and sobriety revealed the true depth of his humiliation. Today he sat in the shelter common room, trapped by the puzzle of his poor choices. He sought some semblance of normalcy, some sense of belonging outside of Abby's magnetic pull, but it was slow in coming.

A saddened Gabriella walked into the common room after touring the shelter accompanied by Father Erasmus. "Owen, we're heading over to the hospice. Want to come?"

"No, thanks," he said trying to create a ten of spades out of a napkin and magic marker.

"Let's go, Owen," Erasmus said, donning his coat. "You need a break. Something worthwhile to distract you."

"Are we walking?" Gabriella asked. Somehow, perhaps through denial, she forced herself to continue.

Erasmus nodded. "It's too late to change my lot in life. I'll take the city with the good and bad. What about you?"

"I'm ready," Gabriella nodded. "I'm ready to face my fears."

With just that little push, Owen changed direction and decided to join them. What else could he do but be pulled along by the ever-strengthening current? His breath glistened in the evening Colorado chill. Still separate from this reality, he barely hung on to the conversation.

Erasmus and Gabriella reminisced about Billy on the way to the hospice. He planned to start classes at the community college in the fall. In a year or two he could transfer to Pueblo State. Jason, his boss at Goodwill, was so pleased with Billy's turnaround that he offered to help pay part of the tuition. But that hope was over … Billy was gone. And Owen was too lost to attend the funeral.

Billy had taken the long walk, just like almost every night, accompanying Gabriella back to her dormitory. During his return journey, he was attacked while Owen spent the time illucid in the gutter somewhere. It should have been him. Why was he visiting the hospice? Only to be surrounded by more death.

**Tony Sacco**

They passed the time with small talk about high school. Aileen offered something to eat. Nervous and anxious, Jane wasn't the least bit hungry. She skirted uncomfortable topics such as Owen, Selkie and her father.

Guerard arrived. "I've been making a lot of phone calls," he said.

He handed over a new folder of information passed on from authorities in New Mexico. Tony studied the contents. "Wow, this is amazing. The MO looks familiar. Six years ago in a swimming pool, huh? And look who was missing from the scene." He held up a small yearbook-style school photo. "If I hadn't seen him with his beard shaved, I may not have recognized him."

Tony sighed, but Jane was vindicated. _He's part of this, yes he is. _

Tony studied the contents of the file. It was long and detailed. "He said he's been running ever since. That part of the story hasn't changed. What's your idea on the mill?" Tony asked Jane.

"Burn it," Jane said. "Burn it to the ground."

Guerard watched as Jane spun her mystical theories. He rubbed his chin looking like he was considering her suggestion. Tony figured he had something of a superstitious streak.

"That's a good idea," Tony said leaning back into his office throne – his leather Barcalounger. "One minor snafu – I'm a police officer. Arson and police investigations don't mix."

"Fire purifies and destroys. We have to destroy the disease infecting the city – at its source."

"I think she's right," Guerard said. "I've always said so. We have the skills. We can do this without anybody figuring it out. It can still look like arson – just don't point the finger in our direction." Guerard lit up a cigarette and Tony handed him an ashtray. "Did you ever build potato cannon?"

After a few minutes of discussion Tony was persuaded. The death toll was rising. Something needed to be done and this was as good as anything. "All right, everybody. Put your hands in the center." Tony placed his fist in the center of the group as a show of unity. The other two added theirs. Tony began the chant, "One, two, three … crazy shaman."

They spent the next several packs of cigarettes planning the assault on the steel mill. There was one rule – no traceable equipment from the police force. It would take the next few days or weeks to procure supplies and build the weapons. Then the battle for Pueblo could begin.

**Owen**

They entered the hospice through the back door. Owen had never been here before. The two-story stone building looked more decrepit than the shelter. The faded and cracked exterior facade wasn't stone at all – it was fake. Owen followed Gabriella and Erasmus up the center stairwell to the screams in the second floor. "Why aren't the lights on?" Owen wondered.

"We haven't had the money to pay the electric bill," Erasmus said. "Fletcher arranged all of that, but it's been months. The power company hasn't had the nerve to cut us off ... yet. Using too much power feels like stealing, since there is no possibility of payment."

At the top of the stairs, Owen heard a loud woman's voice. "I don't want to die," she wailed. "Please, I can't die. What will happen to my children?"

Overwhelmed by the expression of fear, Owen stood fitfully at the open door. Erasmus approached Aileen, who strained to comfort the shrieking patient. Isabel lay propped up in the angled hospital bed with her baby on her lap. "Please, she needs me. I can't die, not yet. Just make the pain go away."

Aileen adjusted the flow on her IV, increasing the morphine drip. Afterward, she lifted the baby into away from Isabel, trying to comfort her. Gabriella helped her settle the baby in a bouncy seat and gave her some dry cereal. The baby giggled with laughter, distracted by the colorful, dancing mobile attached to the frame of her new seat.

Erasmus approached Owen. "Why don't you go down to room 218 for awhile?" he suggested, "I'm going to stay here and pray."

Alone in the solitude of the poorly lit hall, Owen wandered down to room 218. Inside the billows of an archaic respirator noisily pushed air into Lazarus's lungs. An oscilloscope displayed a jagged illustration of an irregular heartbeat. On top of the bed sheet, next to Lazarus's leg, sat Caleb playing with a truck, comforting his brother, "Hi, Owen," he said in welcoming. "My brother is very sick."

Lazarus's cheeks were gaunt and wasted. Owen thought he might already be dead. He was surprised when Lazarus opened his bloodshot eyes and stared.

"I know," Owen said with a sad smile. "How's he doing?" Owen was not very confident with his role at the hospice. How should he comfort Lazarus? He had no skill for this.

Caleb wiggled on his perch. "He's in a lot of pain. Do you want to read him a book?"

"Sure," Owen said, pleased with the suggestion of something he could do.

Caleb handed him an illustrated children's book with the simple title **Nathaniel and Angelica** by Louis Duchambon. "This is his favorite," Caleb said.

"All right." Owen pulled the chair up next to Lazarus bed, sat down and opened up the story to the title page. "Nathaniel," he read, "and Angelica."

Like the hand of a ghost, Lazarus reached with skeletal fingers trying to grasp the cover of the book and pull it in his direction. Caleb said, "He likes to see the pictures."

It made the story difficult to read, but Owen tilted the book toward him. It was the least he could do.

The first page contained a watercolor drawing of a filthy little boy sitting on the street corner extending a silver cup in his hand. The street was contained within a colonial style town surrounded by a tall wooden palisade. Pastel and white buildings made from plaster, wood or stone lined the street ending in a wooden gate. A large two-story brick military hall, overshadowed the scene.

The boy's bare feet, dirty cheeks and worn clothing looked out of place among the bright revolutionary period frilly clothes and shirts of those around him. Nearby a young man doffed his tricorner hat as he helped another woman out of a carriage. Despite her fancy dress and his powdered wig, they stared at the boy with the look of derision that Owen recognized all too well.

Owen took a sip from his cup of water and began to read the story.

"Springtime in the seaside city brought new smells and bustling activity to the marketplace. Flowers bloomed and the birds were singing. Nathaniel hoped a little bit of comfort would fall his way. The odor of fresh bread from the marketplace teased his hunger. He begged for a penny, just so he could have a bite to eat. Out of all the people on all the streets in the entire city, nobody paid attention to this little urchin. Nobody that is, except for…"

On the turn of the page of the book, Owen gasped when he noticed the image of a young girl approaching the orphan child. She wore a simple white dress with green and white flowers woven into her long, straw colored hair. The flowers matched her bright green eyes. Lazarus reached out and caressed the image on the page. Owen was just as entranced. The depiction looked just like the drawing Owen once made for Selkie. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but the sketch could be Abby's double.

After regaining his composure, Owen continued to read.

Angelica. The little girl whom Nathaniel often noticed playing in the street. "What are you looking for, little boy?" Angelica asked.

"I don't want to be hungry anymore, but I don't have any money," Nathaniel said. Angelica ran across the street to the market and returned a few minutes later with a steaming warm roll and handed it to Nathaniel. The bread was so soft that he barely needed to chew. The nourishment gave him the strength to continue.

"When he was done eating the bread he said, "Thank you so very much for your kindness." Angelica picked up his hand and squeezed it tight. "You're welcome." she said. "I promise that you won't be hungry anymore."

Owen turned the page again to the same city, but in Summer. Nathaniel sat on the dry grass next to the dusty road with his empty silver cup. He was sweating. Golden glow from the bright sun dominated the page's drawing.

"Summertime in the city parched Nathaniel's tongue. He coughed when carriages drove by kicking up a cloud of dust. A long line of people stood by the city well to collect their daily fill of water. But water in this busy port wasn't free. Nathaniel hoped someone would glance his way his way as he begged for a penny, just so he could pay for a drink at the well. Out of all the people on all the streets in the entire city, nobody paid attention to this little urchin. Nobody that is, except for…"

Abby appeared on the next page, as well. This time she wore blue flowers to match her bright blue eyes. Like before, Lazarus extended his arm to touch the image.

Angelica. "Nice to see you again, Nathaniel," she said with a curtsy. "What do you wish for today?"

"I don't want to be thirsty anymore, but I don't have any money," Nathaniel said. Angelica ran across the street to the market. The crowd allowed her to head right to the front of the line. She returned a few minutes later with his silver cup filled with cool water. The water coated his scorched tongue and throat. It gave Nathaniel the strength to persevere.

When he was done he said, "Thank you so very much for your kindness." Angelica leaned over and kissed his forehead. "You're welcome." she said. "I promise that you won't be thirsty anymore."

Owen turned the page to the same city with leaves on the trees turning orange, red and brown. Nathaniel sat in the rain next to the muddy road. His silver cup overflowed with too much rainwater. Owen read.

"Autumn in the city heralded pouring rain. Nathaniel shivered from cold and illness. He sneezed while the wealthy drove past in their carriages, sheltered from the downpour. Nathaniel hoped someone would glance his way as he begged for a penny, just so he could pay for some wood or kerosene. Out of all the people on all the streets in the entire city, nobody paid attention to this little urchin. Nobody that is, except for …"

Abby appeared on the next page, as well. This time she wore reddish-yellow flowers in her hair to match her fiery red eyes. The rain couldn't touch her. Lazarus continued to be captivated by the story.

Angelica. "It's wonderful to see you again, Nathaniel," she said with a smile and a wave. "What do you wish for today?"

"I don't want to be cold anymore, but I don't have any money," Nathaniel said shivering. Angelica ran across the street to the market. She returned with a small kerosene heater and fuel. She lit those on fire and the warmth began to fill the area around Nathaniel's begging. The warm fire gave him the strength to go on.

When he was done lighting the fire he said, "Thank you so very much for your kindness." Angelica leaned over and hugged him around the neck. The hug provided as much warmth as the fire, maybe more. "You're welcome." she said. "I promise that you won't be cold anymore."

Owen turned the page to the same city with white snow blanketing the streets. Evergreens and candles decorated the homes with images of gaiety behind the windows. Nathaniel sat in snow up to his waist with his empty silver cup and warm heater. Next to him ran the empty, flawless, snow covered street. Nathaniel watched images of laughing people through the windows of the houses. Owen read.

"The snows of winter in the city brought forth a terrible blizzard. Flakes of snow covered his hair. With everyone indoors enjoying a warmth comfort of their family. Nathaniel sat alone and afraid. Nobody drove past in their carriages. They were all with their loved ones. Nathaniel hoped someone would pass by him so that he could wish them the joy of the season. A penny wouldn't buy anything today and there was nothing he really needed. But out of the entire city not one person walked by. Nobody that is, except for …"

Abby appeared on the next page, as well. Her eyes were once again green, but a darker shade of forest green. She wore boughs of evergreens laced in her hair and a thick green jacket.

Angelica. "Nice to see you again, Nathaniel," she said skipping by in her new Christmas shoes. "What do you want today?"

"'I don't need food and I don't need water and I don't need warmth," Nathaniel said, "but there is something I want more than anything else. I don't believe you will be able to find it in the marketplace."

"'What is it you wish for today, Nathaniel? It's Christmas. Surely today of all days I can get you what you want.'"

Nathaniel lowered his voice to a whisper, as though the clouds themselves might overhear him. "I wish for a home. That's all I ever really wanted."

"I think you are right," Angelica answered. "I can't buy that in the marketplace, but I may be able to help you."

Nathaniel's eyes shined bright with hope for what his day might bring. Angelica lifted up his hand and held it tight; she leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. Finally, she embraced him with an enveloping hug. "Let's go home, Nathaniel," she said. "You will never have to wish for a home again."

Owen turned the page.

The smells and activity of the city returned the following springtime. People rode in their carriages and bought fresh food in the market. All the while, not one of them stopped to wonder about the boy who once sat beside the street hoping and wishing for just a penny to get him through the season.

The last picture of the book showed almost the identical picture as the first, but without the boy sitting there. In the picture, Owen saw two faint, ethereal images walking down the street hand in hand. Lazarus noticed it too.

He struggled with the respirator tube sticking all the way down his throat. "Do you need me to help you?" Owen asked. Lazarus nodded his head.

Owen thought it just might not be positioned correctly. He set the book down on the bed and removed the tape holding the tube to his mouth. He wiggled the tube back and forth. "Is this what you need?" Owen asked.

Lazarus shook his head and started to pull the tube out completely. "I don't think you should be doing that," Owen said wondering if he should call Aileen.

With one final surge, Lazarus removed the tube from his throat. Syrupy phlegm dripped from the plastic. Lazarus coughed and attempted in vain to reach for his cup of ice water.

"I'll get it," Owen said. Owen placed the tube next to the respirator and picked up the cup of water. He slowly dribbled the water into Lazarus's mouth. Lazarus coughed and spit a mixture of water and blood into a plastic tub. His tongue and lips were blistered and sore. "Maybe you shouldn't be trying this," Owen said. "I can get the nurse."

"No," Lazarus said in a barely audible, gravelly voice. He picked up the story book and, trembling, leafed through the pages. "He died, didn't he?" Lazarus asked.

"I think you're right," Owen said. "That's where his home is."

"The girl, Angelica, she's an angel?"

"Yes," Owen answered. The illustrations looked just like Abby.

"I've seen her before," Lazarus said. "Sometimes she comes to sit by my window. She watches me." Lazarus stroked the picture the same way that Abby touched the picture of her father. "Do you think … do you think I'll see her after I die?" Lazarus asked.

Owen didn't know how to answer the question. He couldn't possibly understand what would happen when Lazarus died. "Yes," he answered. It was his penny for a dying boy. "I think you'll see her in heaven."

"I hope so," Lazarus said. "She's really pretty."

"Do you want me to try to replace the tube?" Owen asked having no idea how to complete the task.

"No, I hate that thing." Lazarus struggled to talk. "I can breathe without it." His energy spent, he closed his eyes and drifted into the peace of sleep.

Caleb jumped out of the bed and into Owen's lap. "My turn," he said handing Owen a book.

"My mother used to read this to me when I was a kid," Owen said. "It made me sleepy." He placed his arms around Caleb, opened the pages and started the story, "In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon, and a picture of …" Immediately comforted by Owen's voice, Caleb nestled into his chest and listened to the familiar poem. Owen read the words, but his was distracted by the memory of the illustrations in Lazarus's book.

He didn't know how much time past, but he was achy and stiff when he felt fingers pressing into his cheek ... waking him up. "He went home," the voice said through the mist of Owen's sleep.

"Wha...?"

A flat green line shined across the face of the oscilloscope, accompanied by a high pitched buzz. Lazarus's glassy eyes stared into empty space. Caleb said, "I saw her. The angel was here. She carried him home."

"The angel was here?" Owen said. "She's on the wrong side of the river."

"She was right outside the window. She never comes in. The way she looked at you, I thought she might take you, too." Owen stared at the window in wonder.

Attracted by the alarm, Aileen came in the room and closed Lazarus's eyelids. She disconnected the wires and IV tube and turned off all of the equipment.

Owen cradled Caleb in his arms, providing comfort. He hadn't watched Lazarus's death. He wondered what it was like … witnessing the spark of life leave someone's eyes. For the first time in a very long time, he was comforted by the idea that it was natural; it was pure; and it wasn't his fault. Lazarus was home and at peace.

Owen puzzled over the idea of an angel on the windowsill. _The imagination of a child_. Even that thought was cowardly; Owen owed Lazarus a stronger memory. He didn't rely on morphine like his mother, yet he must have been in so much pain. Was this a vision of bravery that Owen longed for? Or was it just giving up?

Isabel died that very same night. She never recovered from her morphine drip. It didn't seem as serene.

Past midnight, with Billy unavailable, Owen volunteered to escort Gabriella back to her dormitory. Erasmus offered to return to the shelter, ready to let him back in when he returned. Or maybe he would go to Selkie's … it was his choice.

They strolled across the Fourth Street Bridge, past the dominating presence of the steel mill, and all the way down Hudson Street. Higher than before, the white water surged around the stanchions.

Paralyzed by the darkness, Owen fought the drag to fulfill his narcotic needs. Gabriella did most of the talking. She talked about nursing classes with dreams toward the future. She encouraged Owen to seek drug treatment. It was a way out – a hope for a better tomorrow. "It would be courageous," she said. But what did she know about courage? She was in denial.

He had made this journey a few times before, all the way to the Pueblo State library. It took longer than he remembered. While they walked, Owen kept his ears on the conversation and his eyes on the buildings and trees. In every object he seemed to feel something watching him. He didn't see anything, nor could he relax.

At one point, Gabriella was disconcerted by some strange noise. She grabbed his hand for support, but let go almost as quickly. Owen was glad for the release – the memory of her island cudgel was too disturbing for such intimate contact.

An hour into the walk, they were almost at the campus. He noticed the trees rustling. He skirted around the noise out of uncertainty, a tenuous worry. It didn't matter. The creature didn't need to fall on them … he had wings.

The demonic form swooped on Gabriella and shoved Owen away. Gabriella screamed. He held her down to the ground and brushed her hair aside – to free her neck. For a moment he was terrified. How could he stand himself?

The bravery shown by Lazarus emboldened him. Owen withdrew the baggie from his pocket. He was forced to act when the creature crouched in a grotesque angle, opened his jaws, and lowered his lips to her throat. Owen tossed the rice, scattering it along a wide swath of the sidewalk and street. Startled by the distraction, the winged form scampered over to the grain and began to place them in a pile … one by one, counting.

Without waiting for the result, he hurried toward Gabriella. "Are you okay?" he asked. "Did he break the skin? Answer me … did he break the skin?" He lifted the hair around her neck and pulled down her collar. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was whole – she was fine. She stood up and pulled a gun like weapon out of her purse and squeezed the trigger. Two electric leads pierced the creature's skin. A little late, but effective.

The creature screeched and raced away from the sidewalk and the rice, pulling the cartridge out of the gun. The wires dangled along behind him.

"What was that thing?" Gabriella said.

Owen recognized him. "Javier," he said. It was about the worst possibility.

"Javier?" Gabriella pleaded. "It doesn't even look like him. What does this mean?"

"It means," Owen said pausing wondering what it really meant. He was heartened by the story he read to Lazarus, but it was a lie. The truth of the disappointment settled in. "It means that I wasted six years of my life." Six years. He asked her incessantly to join her. And never once did Abby agree to change him.

Suddenly, he felt the acerbic, coppery taste of blood burst on his tongue. He screamed. Fire blazed on his cheek. He tried to rip his skin off – get at the source of the flame. Something was wrong. Terribly, horrendously wrong.


	34. Chapter 34

Note: Chapters 34, 35 & 36 were once Chapter 18

Chapter 34

St. Elmo's Fire

**Owen**

"Are you okay? What is it?" Gabriella asked, just getting over the shock of the assault.

"Go back to your dorm." Owen leaped and ran faster than he ever ran before. He ran without thought or worry. For the first time he ran toward something instead of away. He raced all the way back to the Fourth Street Bridge where he stopped and gazed across the span. At the opposite side was the waifish, flaxen haired figure, the one he thought he knew so well, fighting to cross the river.

Owen ran across the bridge and lifted her in his arms. "Abby, what is it?"

Sleepily she lifted her face and gazed into his eyes. "Is it really you?" She stroked Owen's cheek. "Is this a dream? I've missed you," she said.

Owen couldn't possibly reconcile the mixture of emotions. _What was she doing on the other side of the river? What about Javier?_ He carried her all the way across. A flame seared into his flesh, never left. She had a strange mark burned into her cheek. A symbol or something. "What happened, Abby? How did a 'T' get burned into your cheek?"

"_It's not a 'T'," she said. She grimaced in pain. "I couldn't kill him. Please, do it. Please, kill him for me. I can't take the voices." Abby smiled through sleepy eyes and placed her hand on Owen's cheek. Sticky, sweet blood dribbled across her chin._

_"Oh, no." He gently placed her on the sidewalk on the east side. "What have you done?" he asked in a quiet whisper. Then he abandoned her again and raced back across the bridge. Once again he ran toward something, knowing the awful truth he would find._

Owen found Erasmus at the steps to the rectory, mired in blood. Winded after his long run, Owen gagged from the stench of burnt flesh. Hissing skin covered the lower portion of the silver cross around the priest's neck. Owen didn't have to ask where the skin came from – he knew, he still felt a remnant of pain on his own cheek – it was Abby's.

"Father, let me help you. Does it hurt?" Owen asked.

"Not as much as you would expect," Erasmus said. The gaping holes in his neck made it difficult to speak. Air aspirated through small punctures in his trachea. He held his hand pressed against his throat, like fingering a flute, trying to stem the flow.

Owen propped open the door to provide a clear entry way. He placed his hands under Erasmus' shoulders, right beneath each scapula and pulled him toward the residence. "You can come in," Owen said.

"Of course I can come in," Erasmus gasped. "It's my place."

"I just wanted to make sure it was okay," he said. Owen was worried about more than just whether or not Erasmus could enter. This is blessed ground. He knew the lore. Six years frittered away and he never thought to ask Abby about it.

Once inside the door (Erasmus didn't bleed through his pores or burn or otherwise decompose on entry), he glanced around to gain his bearing. The room was arranged like an efficiency apartment. In the darkness of the moonlight all of the wood appeared russet brown, almost black. The bed was in the main area with a crucifix nailed above the headboard and a writing desk at the foot. A bathroom was off to the side, but no closet. Instead he owned an enormous wardrobe. Owen didn't bother to turn a light on. He was accustomed to darkness.

He carried Father Erasmus over to his bed and heaved him onto the mattress. Blood stained the white linens and cream colored bedspread, but Owen could do nothing for it. He ran to the bathroom and found a basin next to the sink. Quaking from anxiety he filled it with warm water from the faucet and tossed in a wash cloth. He knew the procedure; he knew how to clean up after a bloody mess. But Abby begged Owen to kill him … to "quiet the voices." Moira was bad enough. With nowhere near that courage, Owen didn't think he could do it. He couldn't bring himself to satisfy her wishes.

Holding the basin next to his waist with one arm, he dragged the desk chair over next to the bed with the other. He set the basin on the nightstand, rinsed out the wash cloth, and pressed it tightly against the neck wound. The injury was already beginning to mend itself. Erasmus's forehead was cold and clammy and his eyes turned glassy from delirium.

Owen wheezed from all the excitement of the effort. Finally, he had a moment to think … he found his own cheeks flooded with the brackish wetness of tears. "I'm sorry, Father. I'm so sorry."

Erasmus didn't respond. Feverish, he moaned incoherently. Several times, he rolled over onto his side, pulling the dressing out of Owen's hand. Owen snatched back the rag, rinsed in the basin, and gently replaced it. Each time, he noticed the skin was tighter and more complete until it mended to a blotchy, reddened sore. As it healed, Erasmus became more and more aware of his surroundings.

The priest opened his eyes and glanced around the room. He took the cloth out of Owen's hand and pressed it against his neck. Then he shoved himself up into an upright, seated position. "So, tell me," he said almost casually, "was that the sister you spoke of?"

Owen chuckled with a hint of melancholy, "Yeah that was her." Then, because he was a priest, Owen admitted, "She's not really my sister."

"She was sick you said." Erasmus bent over with a loud moan. A rumble emanated from his midsection. When he recovered, he looked saddened and dismayed. "And contagious. I guess that makes me sick, too. What's going to happen to me now? How long do I have?"

Not really sure how to answer the question, Owen said, "No time … forever, take your pick,"

"That's kind of a wide range. Can you narrow it down a little?"

"You're already sick," Owen conceded. "Your cravings may begin right away. It depends how much blood she drew out." Owen began to describe the symptoms as best he could. He owed it to the priest. He was going to learn about them soon enough – inability to eat solid food, a desire to live in darkness, dangers of the sun and a longing, overpowering cravings for life giving blood. "As long as you are careful, you can live forever."

"I'll just have to do my best," Erasmus said, "I don't think I could bring myself to drink someone's blood."

"You won't be able to control yourself. The need will consume you."

"I'm nothing, if not optimistic. I need to come up with another way." Erasmus reposed against his pillow and shut his eyes. "Maybe I'll just rest her for a minute." He coughed and spit into the basin. "Why don't you tell me a little about the girl? My throat's sore. I'm having a little difficulty speaking."

What to say about Abby? How could he express both his affection and revulsion? "Abby is special … she's beautiful. I understand her in ways that I never understood anybody else. I know her thoughts; her dreams are my dreams; she is a part of me …" Talking about Abby distracted him from the illness raging through Father Erasmus. "But then she rejected me. For the first time in … forever … I don't know why. I'm an empty can floating on the river. She might as well have killed me."

Owen wanted to talk about all the things he did for Abby. He wanted to explain the sacrifices he made. It seemed important to tell someone. He realized he couldn't say anything without mentioning her prey. _They aren't prey, they were people_.

He decided to confide in him. Give Erasmus some idea what to expect. It was only fair. "The baby was the worst. He seemed so innocent, so pure," Owen said. He began to describe the other victims … the people – an old couple whose only guilt was to own a house on the outskirts of town, a taxi driver, a hiker in the woods – Jim Sandiford. The names he could remember, he gave him. Those were few. But the faces, he remembered everyone … tall or short, young or old, white or black. How many were there? The list seemed to drag on forever. Dozens? Hundreds? He couldn't begin to fathom how long Abby's list was.

He droned on, expecting Erasmus to pass judgment or contact the police. He awaited some pronouncement of evil from the priest's lips. All the while, Erasmus rested on his bed with his eyes shut. _Maybe he's asleep_. It was like talking to a wall. Owen went so far as to take the blame for the deaths at the gang shooting. Teodelina Escalante. He didn't kill them directly, but he took the blood that stole their lives.

Finally, Owen talked about the girl he killed, "Moira. I don't even know if that is really her name. She was beautiful and sweet. I barely got to know her, but she was kind to me before I …" Owen broke down in convulsive sobs. His sadness raged in chaotic turmoil. He had to stop and gain his breath. He still dreamed about the softness of her lips … of her skin. He felt the pocketknife pressed against her neck before it pierced it like a balloon. The torrent of her life flowed out like the river. His hands were still covered in blood. With one more gasp he admitted "before I butchered her."

For the first time, Erasmus spoke. "Is that it?" He asked.

"Is that it!" Owen demanded. "Isn't that enough?" But that wasn't it. He thought farther back and admitted to one more abomination. "I stole. I took money from my mother. Money she could barely afford. So that I could buy candy. And from Selkie, too. I've betrayed everybody who ever loved me."

Erasmus opened his eyes and pulled himself out of his reclining positions. He swung his legs out and sat up fully in the bed. Owen had to push his chair back to clear space. He waited nervously for the criticism … the scorn. Erasmus pointed to the Kitchen and asked Owen to get him a glass of water. When Owen returned, Erasmus took a sip and said, "Your sins are forgiven. Now go forth and sin no more."

_Just like that?_ "Weren't you listening? You can't erase everything. I don't think I could ever forgive myself. I'm better off dead."

"You were. Until now," Erasmus said. "Would it make you feel better to say ten Hail Mary's?" Erasmus took another sip of water and collected his thoughts. "Nobody can erase your transgressions. You will carry them with you forever. You've participated in terribly evil acts – there is no way that I can find it within my heart to forgive you." He set the glass on the table. "Instead, let me tell you a story about a greedy sinner. This is your penance … you have to listen to the whimsical notions of an old priest.

"This man's greed led him astray, but he wanted to be received in heaven. Jesus explained to his disciples, 'It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a sinner to enter the kingdom of God.' When the disciples heard this, they were astonished and asked, 'Who then can be saved?' Jesus looked at them and said, 'With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.'

"I can't forgive you," Erasmus said. Somehow, he was calm and peaceful. An admitted murderer was sitting right in from of him with a virus destroying him, "but with God all things are possible."

"You don't really believe that. I'm eighteen years old, I'm an adult; I'm responsible."

"It's all I have left to believe," Erasmus said. "You've been through the eye of the needle. You are my ideal person. It may be hard to believe, but you are the best person I know and the future stretches out before you – an empty canvas you have yet to paint."

"How could I possibly be the best person you know?" Owen asked with a surly scowl._ I don't even understand this game he's playing_. "The disease is destroying you … twisting your thoughts."

"The last shall be first," Erasmus said. "You think everyone is better than you. That level of humility is a rare gift."

"Everyone **is**better than me."

Erasmus pulled the rag away from his neck. Completely healed, but Owen knew it was an illusion.

"I can't begin to understand the evil you have witnessed, but I see evil every day. We all suffer from it. My own parishioners – just about everyone – is guilty. Myself included. The homeless, atheists, those with AIDS. We feel better about ourselves up by tearing them down. That evil destroys the foundation of our community. But we all give in at one point or another. We can never defeat evil. Most people don't even recognize when it is staring them in the face. The challenge is to pick ourselves up and return to the struggle."

Owen thought he had an answer for those assertions. "What about Gabriella? She seems to rise above all of that. She must be the best person you know."

"Gabriella," Erasmus mused, "she is a special person. Nobody loves her more than I do. But she is trapped by the judgment of anybody who doesn't share the passion of her causes. She is a wonderful caregiver, but humility has somehow escaped her."

_Not with chemistry_. "She's better than me," Owen said, "everybody is better than I am."

"Even priests?" Erasmus asked with a wry smile.

How could he be so gentle, so content at a time like this – and so damned intuitive? "Even priests," Owen admitted. His uncertainty in that answer must have shown through the deception.

"What happened between you and a priest?" Erasmus asked. "Were you abused? Were you molested?"

"No, nothing like that," Owen said. He was almost ashamed by the assertion. "I always thought priests were supposed to keep families together. But not this one – he drove a wedge between my parents, split them apart."

"A priest did that?"

"He was the final blow." Owen calmly described his father's temper how it would lash out at the craziest times. It wasn't all bad. Sometimes his father played ball with him or took him to the park. These were times he wanted to remember. In between the brutality there was love. And Owen was not the best behaved child. "I needed discipline. My father hit me out of love, didn't he?"

Erasmus didn't need to answer. It was a rhetorical question. Giving voice to it made it sound ridiculous.

"My mother found strength and comfort when counseled by the priest." Owen hated that man. "He told my mother to leave him. I thought you were supposed to keep families together. Divorce is not allowed, right?"

"Sometimes there aren't any good choices," Father Erasmus said. He took a sip of water from the glass Owen found for him. "So, I can't eat anything, huh?"

Owen shook his head.

"What about chewing tobacco – do you think I can stomach that?"

Owen laughed, "I have no idea," he said. "Give it a try."

Erasmus took grasp of a small amount of tobacco and placed it in his mouth. He chewed for a little while and closed his eyes absorbing the euphoria. After a few moments, he gagged and grabbed a waste can. He vomited a brown slimy goo. "I guess not," he said. "That's disappointing." He rinsed his mouth out with water and spit into the can.

Downcast at the priest's pending illness, Owen suggested, "You can take my blood. It will help. You have to kill me afterward … break my neck. Or else the cycle will continue, and I will need to find some of my own."

"No, I'm not going to do that," Erasmus said with a sigh of understanding. "You need to grow old and make something positive out of your life. I want to see what happens to you on this side of the needle's eye."

"Maybe just a small amount to help you through the rest of the night." _If I just stick around long enough, he will become desperate._ "I tried it once for Abby, but she became furious. She wouldn't speak to me for a week."

"It's not enough," Erasmus said. "I'll need more tomorrow. One way or another, the cravings will devour me."

"Maybe I can give you a little bit each night or every few nights," Owen suggested pleased with the idea.

"Stop!" Erasmus yelled. So he did have a temper after all. "Get away from me you Satan. I'm not drinking your blood." He calmed himself down and indicated toward a door next to the Kitchenette. "I have an idea. Can you fetch my chalice?"

Owen went through the door into the sacristy. It was dark and crowded with all sorts of religious artifacts – crucifixes and candles. Owen found a golden chalice on the counter. A huge bowl at the top with intricate, looping embellishments on the side. It sat on a smaller, hexagonal base and stem. He brought it to Erasmus whom he discovered standing by the wardrobe and donning a long white gown. The priest sent him on several more errands to which he gladly consented. It was distracting. Finally, the priest sent him for an aspersorium.

"Aspersorium, what's that?"

"Were you ever an altar boy?" Erasmus asked. Owen nodded. "It's the bucket for the holy water."

"The holy water doesn't help," Owen said. "I tried it."

Erasmus insisted. He needed the holy water for the ritual. Owen searched everywhere until he found the aspersorium inside one of the closets.

When he returned, Father Erasmus was completely dressed in his a white gown, white rope belt. Only a green stole interrupted the purity. Owen lifted the wand out of the bucket and sprinkled it playfully in the priest's direction. "See, I told you it wouldn't do anything. What's this called?" Owen asked of the holy wand.

"It's called an aspergillum or aspergil," Erasmus said.

From Selkie's poem. Owen's mind whirled with understanding. There was a chance the poem had the force of prophecy. This meant they couldn't force the events to occur, they would happen by chance when the threads of fate were woven. Their task was to recognize the opportunity and act on it – make the correct choices – force the prophecy to success. "You should use hyssop," Owen suggested.

"Hyssop," Erasmus said, "I never tried that before. In the Old Testament, hyssop is used in Jewish medical rituals. It grows on rocky ground like my island in middle of the river. I don't think I have any available." He sprinkled the room and bed with a splash of holy water from the aspergil, finishing up with a shower for Owen. He shivered from the cold splash.

Tomorrow night was the vernal equinox. The night Selkie planned for her ceremony. He dared not hope it was coming to pass, but for some reason Owen knew that the stars were beginning to align for something special. It could take days or years, but it was beginning.

He glanced at Father Erasmus preparing his table and conceived a horrible dilemma. Fate was all about choice … Owen had to make the correct one. For years he pleaded for a cure for Abby, but now another, more deserving, victim sat before him. _If I had one chance who should I cure? _He was paralyzed by this quixotic twist of fate. _It has to be Erasmus – how could I possibly consider Abby first?_

Erasmus had cleared off the nightstand of everything except the water. He placed a linen handkerchief on top with the chalice and shallow gold bowl on top of that. The rote routine was disrupted when he leaned off to the side and grabbed his abdomen accompanied by a throaty whimper. His eyes clenched tight against the pain. After a few moments, he recovered and sat up. His face had become sallow and pale and his eyes transformed with brilliant blue irises. The change was coming. "Abby, huh? That almost sounds like 'father'."

"Kind of," Owen said. "She was named after a French priest – Abbé Jean-Louis Le Loutre. He led natives on raids against British settlements many years ago, paying them for scalps in return for their blood. He was the one who changed her."

Erasmus had grown to more of a throaty growl. He continued talking despite the change. "Another stellar member of the cloth. We are human, after all. Don't judge us all by his standard."

His setup complete, Erasmus placed two wafers in the gold bowl, mumbled some words at them, and lifted the bowl up above his head. He lifted one of the wafers and said, "Owen, do you believe this is the body of Christ?"

Owen shrugged, "Yeah, I guess."

"That's conviction for you." He moved it over to Owen's lips. "Owen, this **is** the body of Christ."

"Amen." Owen took the bread on his tongue and swallowed it. He saw Erasmus lifting the second one and moved it toward his mouth. "I don't think you should do that," Owen warned.

"I'm willing to give it a try," Erasmus said with a wink. He placed the bread on his tongue and swallowed. He held a look of intense concentration on his face. For a few moments he seemed fine. Then Owen heard the rumble of rebellion from his bowels. He pushed the trash can to his side and heaved a vile mixture of unleavened bread and phlegm.

He wiped the residue off of his chin with a rag. "That didn't work out so well," Erasmus said. His skin had yellowed from the effort. "Hopefully, I'll have better luck with the next step." He poured half a bottle of red wine into the chalice and added a few sprinkles of water. After repeating murmurs with the chalice held high, Erasmus held the gold cup in front of Owen and said, "Owen, do you believe this is the blood of Christ?"

Those were the magic words. In his tragic blue eyes, Owen saw the need. Erasmus needed this to be more than just wine. He believed it would substitute for human blood, and he searched in Owen's heart for validation. "Yes," Owen said. Just like with Lazarus the night before, he lied. A penny for a desperate man.

Erasmus raised the cup to Owen's lips and said, "This is the blood of Christ."

Owen took the chalice from the expectant hands and tilted it toward his lips. The trickling wine burned on the way down Owen's throat. He gasped from the sensation. Liquid fire. _Fire can purify_…

A longing within Owen wished and prayed that Erasmus would successful with the substitution, but faith was lacking. He couldn't bring himself to believe it.

He returned the chalice to Erasmus. The priest lifted it into the air with eyes closed giving it an extra prayer. He placed the chalice up to his lips, swallowed a few deep gulps, returned the chalice to his nightstand, and waited. His eyes watered from shimmering pain. He took a few breaths to control his passion. Smoke puffed from his nostrils. "I'm burning up," he gasped. He pinched his eyes tight and let out a loud, excruciating wail, "I'm on fire!"

Then he retched gallons of rancid wine along with half his stomach lining into the wastebasket. It sounded and smelled awful - like sour vinegar. Discarded paper caught fire and gray smoke filled the room. Owen raced to the Kitchenette where he found a small fire extinguisher attached to the wall. Discharging it into the waste can, he doused the fire.

Father Erasmus leaned back on the bed panting heavily. Vapor snaked from his mouth and nose to the roof until they dwindled to nothing. Owen paced around the room. Not sure what to do, he opened a window to evacuate some of the smoke and placed the wastebasket outside.

Returning back to Erasmus, Owen found him sitting up in bed. His wrinkled skin tone was darker, more of a mustard shade, and sores blistered his cheeks. His teeth and nails were misshapen. "That didn't work out how as well as I hoped," he growled with a chuckle. "How do I look?"

"Not so good," Owen said. But he was already resigned to the outcome. "Are you ready to try some of my blood?"

Erasmus shook his head. "I have half a mind to take a stroll." He removed his stole and gown, grabbed a light jacket and headed for the door. "Are you coming?"

"I'm not sure that is the best idea," Owen said with the sudden recognition of how tired he was. Glancing at a wall clock he said, "It's already four o'clock in the morning. Maybe we should wait until tonight."

"It's a lark. I want to see my cedar tree – my hope." Owen grabbed his coat and followed him out the door.

It was a long way. The pair weaved down the streets of Pueblo until they roamed onto a walking path that ran along the river under the Main Street Bridge. The spring thaw thundered in full force, almost causing the river to spill over the banks. Erasmus started up a stilted conversation, "So tell me – have you known Abby for a long time?"

"Six years."

"You've done all of these things for her; you've located victims; you've sheltered her; you comforted her. In all this time did she ever give you any idea why she would have pushed you away?"

"I disappointed her." Owen said. "I'm a coward."

That statement startled Erasmus. He stopped short. Owen kept walking for an instant before he realized Erasmus halted. "You're a coward?" he asked incredulously. "That doesn't sit right."

"For six years, I've begged her to infect me, and she refused. In less than a month … she made her choice clear. She changed someone else; someone younger."

"You know her best. Is it easier for her to infect you or refuse to infect you?"

"You're refusing," Owen shrugged. That wasn't the best answer. This is one night not six years. "The guy before me kept going for forty or fifty years," Owen said. "He wasn't afraid. He killed for her, because that is what she needed. His sacrifice for her."

"He was the coward," Erasmus said. "Never once facing the monster he became. You are made of strong enough fiber to recognize the evil. Yet you didn't run; you stayed with her. Don't you see it? It's destroying you. You wear your struggles as a badge of courage." He began walking upriver again and Owen followed along. "Owen, she made a choice for good. She pushed you away because she cared for you. Not because she was disappointed in you. She wants you to have a better life. That was her sacrifice … for you."

"At one time, I thought that might be right," Owen said, "That lie kept me going. Even Blaise was stronger. I proved my cowardice when I couldn't help him."

"You were high," Erasmus said. He began walking again and Owen followed. "Drugs are an illusion," Erasmus said. "They don't create cowardice any more than they create courage."

They strolled under the Fourth Street Bridge. In the midst of refuse and waste, the camp was unobtrusive. But Owen knew it; he recognized Blaise and Greg's abandoned fire pit where they once cooked his pigeon. "Ah, here we are," Erasmus continued. "Look at the way the cedar twists in the wind. This is the most beautiful place in Pueblo. It helps me treasure the future. I'm sorry I won't get to see it."

Owen looked at the skyline. The sky was brightening to a pink shade at the horizon. A few birds twittered in the trees with newly formed buds. Spring was almost here; more importantly so was morning. "That was a long walk. I don't think we'll be able to make it back. We can spend the day under the bridge. I've done it before."

"Oh, shit!" Erasmus said stunning Owen with his profanity. "This is very important. I need you to do one thing for me. Can you promise me that?" Owen nodded, wondering what it could be. "I left the wine out on the nightstand. When we're done here, I need you to return to the rectory and drink it … drink it all."

"Why? We can both go at nightfall."

"Owen, I need you to do this for me. It's Eucharistic wine; consecrated. I should never have left it out."

"I don't understand."

"Sunrise – just one more time," Erasmus said. "I'm not returning."

Owen was startled by the admission. "What do you mean, you're not returning?" _Another victim on the altar._ Water pooled in the well of his eyelids. "Why would you do this? You could live forever. You could be immortal."

Father Erasmus smiled through jagged, crooked teeth and placed both his scaly hands on Owen's shoulders. "Don't worry about me. I am."

Sunlight pierced the horizon and reflected in Erasmus's radiant blue eyes. A wisp of smoke curled skyward from his forehead. A small, bright yellow flame soon followed. The breeze chose this moment to grow calm, clearing a path to the disappearing stars. Owen felt the scorching warmth of the fire and, for the first time in what felt like centuries, he forced himself to watch the flicker of life leave someone's eyes and grow dim. The priest's life followed the trail of smoke to the heavens. Ash of his humanity fell to the ground.

Forced to back away from the raging tempest, Owen continued to watch until the fire died down. He owed the priest that much for his kindness. Alone again, Owen was paralyzed with the decision of what to do next. Instead, Owen knelt on the river's edge; his thoughts waffling between Selkie and Abby with a few prayers for the priest tossed into the inferno of his thoughts.

Erasmus was right. Owen knew Abby … better than anybody. In his heart, he knew that she often fought the urge to infect Owen. _But why Javier_? Maybe she just couldn't bring herself to kill the boy. He reminded her too much of a young Owen. The idea brought him solace, but it didn't answer his question of what to do. _Doing nothing is a choice, a cowardly choice. _

Owen mulled over everything Erasmus said, hoping to glean some memory … some wisdom. There is no wisdom there. Erasmus chose the easy route … the coward's choice. Rather than face the struggle, he gave up. He was sure the church taught that suicide was a path to hell.

But one thing Erasmus said … one word … would not leave it as it tickled his memory. Owen ruminated over that one phrase. It goaded the puzzle solver into action. _Consecrated._ _The wine is consecrated … not concentrated. Consecrated blood. Selkie misunderstood the faerie language. But why didn't it help Erasmus?_ Owen watched the final trail of smoke rise to the cerulean, cloudless sky. _The poem has the force of prophecy – when the threads come together, I have to make the right choices_. It wasn't complete until now. _The consecrated blood of a saint._

_Could it be that simple_? How long had he wasted, sitting there doing nothing? Trying to solve the puzzle of his existence. Selkie expected him to help face her fears. He didn't want to let her down, again. Maybe he could address both – get the wine for Abby and then return to Selkie's house. He had to make a decision to do something. He rooted around through the ash, _sorry Father_. Among coins and the cross, he found the keys for the rectory. He covered the ground back to the church for that chalice. _To fulfill Erasmus's last wish_.

He had no idea if this was the solution to the poem, if there even was a solution. But it gave him hope. In the end, that was all he ever really wanted. Enough hope to confront his demons.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

The Battle of Pueblo

**Owen**

Once again, Owen found himself running all the way back to St. Simeon's. Awake all night, tiredness left him distracted and paranoid. He paused on the street across from the rectory to study the scene. An empty police car sat outside the church. Every few moments he heard the radio crackle. An old man in a long black cassock and funky hat emerged from the rectory with notebooks in his hand. He stuffed the notebooks in his briefcase and locked the door behind him. _ I hope he left the chalice alone._

The man in black slipped into his silver Volvo and drove away. Owen watched and waited. A station wagon pulled into the church parking lot next to the rectory. A few minutes later, the woman in a long, red coat was turned away by the locked front door of the church. After she drove off, the area around the church was quiet. The police car made him nervous, but there was no activity around it anywhere.

Finally, he worked up the courage to try the rectory door. His heart thundered in his chest from anxiety. He unlocked the door and entered. The chalice sat on Erasmus' nightstand filled with the remaining wine. Owen grabbed it and carefully conveyed it out the door with both hands surrounding the stem. Another car drove by the front of the church. _Damn, my nerves are shot_!

He left the door unlocked and hurried down the street. He forced himself to go slow enough to be sure not to spill a drop. The smokestack guided him home. Across the Fourth Street Bridge to the steel mill, he grew anxious wondering how she would greet him. Entering through the alley he circled around to the damaged side door as twilight fell over the city. He felt her stirring. She knew he was coming … and she was anxious.

Setting the chalice on the ground, he used both hands wedge his fingers in the door jamb and pry it open. After two months, his excitement grew at the thought of seeing her, of really talking to her. He worried about his reception. He picked it up and jogged up the stairs to the first floor. He had forgotten the dank smell and shadowy darkness. "Abby," he called, "It's me."

Something firm and hard bashed him in the side of his head. As he fell to the ground, he heard the clang of the gold chalice on the concrete floor. From his position on the floor he saw the burgundy fluid seep into the crevices of the concrete along with all of his dreams. A young boy's cackle echoed in the cavern. Then he felt a second hard smack against the side of his head.

**Selkie**

The equinox was here. Evening broached on the appointed night and Owen hadn't returned. Selkie was disappointed to be all alone in the basement ceremonial chamber, but she wasn't surprised. Selkie desired his friendship and companionship, but she didn't need it. She freed the malevolent spirit on her own. She needed to find the courage to return it on her own.

After extinguishing the electric lights, she lit the four candles around the stone altar – one for protection, one for endurance, one for love, and finally the bitter candle of truth. The ingredients blended in the air for the pungent, cedar aroma of hope.

She had collected all the necessary ingredients for the spell. The dove and the swan, seven dried stalks of hyssop, a clay pot filled with water from the Arkansas, and cedar logs – all were arranged on and around the stone altar in preparation. Anchored to the wall with his chain, the swan sang with a furious hiss. She chose a half-sphere geode of blue agate as a 'vessel of grace' – the best idea she had.

Before the ritual, Selkie was required to symbolically petition the goddess of the underworld. Filled with hatred and jealousy, the goddess required her to abandon all deceits and approach her as the day she was born.

Stepping up to the stone gateway she deposited her first deceit: her charcoals and paints served as a scepter for her talent and artistry. She was sad to let them go. She placed them on the floor next to the gateway and passed through. The second time through, she disposed of her second deceit: her wealth represented by her earrings and jewelry. Next she washed away her deceit of vanity – brilliant green and purple hues – the colors of spring she used to decorate her eyes and cheeks. She disposed of the dirtied wipes for collection by the gatekeeper and passed through the gateway once more.

Seven times in total, Selkie walked through the portal into the underworld the gateway. Her last deceit, the symbol of womanhood, left her cold and naked. She wished she could remove her scars and tattoos, but those were part of her now. After passing through the gateway for the seventh time, she walked around to the front of the altar and, using pine needles as kindling, she flared the fire in the cedar logs.

It's a fact of life that when you scrub away a stain, some of its essence remains behind. The walls of the basement had been cleansed of their demonic symbols, but they retained the memory. The old and inefficient flue above the altar removed most of the smoke. So entranced in her ceremonial duties, Selkie was unaware as the smoke tinted the walls, restoring Elizabeth Barleysmith's ancient symbols of attraction. She removed the dove from its cage, held it high above the fire, and repeated the first stanza of the prayer.

_To clean the heifer's blood, the bowels, the hide_

_Destroy the serpent stain that dwells inside_

_Witness the uncoiling faint wisp of smoke_

_Pray dear Paraclete, Eleazar invoke_

**Tony Sacco  
**

They arranged to meet before dusk at a bar across the street from the mill. Dressed in jeans, a nondescript jacket and Colorado Rockies Ballcap, he parked his cruiser in front of the church and casually completed the long walk back to the sports bar near the mill. He thought it was appropriate. Nobody was going to spot his car anywhere nearby the fire. He downed a few cold Coors draft while waiting for the rest of the team to arrive. Before long Guerard showed up and asked for a beer. They talked about nothing important – their goal was to blend in. Don't be noticeable.

Finally Jane arrived. She asked for some strange tea of which they never heard. _Don't attract attention_, Tony thought shaking his head. "Where'd you park?" he asked her.

"I didn't," she said. "I walked from my apartment. It's not that far."

They had scouted out the mill several times the day before deciding on a raised location on the other side of the fence. From there, they would launch their assault.

When darkness fell on the city Guerard noticed a boy hurry into the alley – the driveway which led to the mill parking lot. He carried something golden. _A cup_? "Somebody just ran into the mill."

"It's that kid," Jane said, "I told you he was part of this."

"We're taking your word that the mill is part of this," Tony said. "I never did like that empty mill. It's been a blot on the city ever since it closed down."

They finished their drinks and left money in payment. Each of them put their hands in the center of the circle, just like at their team basketball games. "One, two, three … crazy shaman." They said and split up to complete their assignments arranging to meet behind the fence in about an hour. Tony's job was the water main. It had to be shut off to deactivate the sprinklers. It wouldn't do any good to set the place on fire only to have the safety systems extinguish it.

**Abby**

Abby felt the hunger of anticipation permeate across her tongue and throat. Crawling along the interior brick wall of the furnace, she sensed Owen recover his awareness. He dangled from the rope attached to the smokestack cross-bar, his hands secured behind his back. With his shirt off, Abby was stunned by the amount of bruising he endured. Flapping her wings to stabilize herself on the wall, like her uncle, she inhabited her demonic form. "What are you doing here?" she asked in a loud whisper. "I released you."

"You can't release me," Owen declared in quiet defiance. "It's my choice."

"What have we here, Abigail?" her uncle asked. "Is this another one of your pets?"

"Non, l'oncle. Pas celui-ci," she protested. _No, uncle. Not this one._ It was her role in the farce. She knew it well by this time.

Abby did not understand the sensation of calm radiating from Owen. "So is this the uncle that you spoke about?" Abby nodded. "Pleased to meet you," Owen said twisting around to try to get a good look at him. "I've heard so much about you." Then he lowered his voice. "None of it good."

Like an excited puppy, Javier raced around the inside diameter of the shaft above all the others. "Let me taste him! This'll be great!"

Jean-Louis jumped from the brick and landed on Owen's shoulders. Owen grimaced and Abby felt a flicker of pain radiate from his shoulders. "He's a cute one moi chaton noir. A little mature and scrawny for my taste." He crawled around and pressed his face up against Owen's. "I love the way fear smells when it glistens in your face." Saliva dribbled on Owen's shoulder and sizzled when it struck.

This time Abby was sure … her uncle couldn't smell fear. Calm flowed through Owen. It fed her … encouraged her. She agonized for him, but he didn't seem to appreciate the danger. "Do you remember where I placed that gorgon's head?" Owen asked.

Abby chuckled at the comment. "You never can find a good gorgon's head when you need one to take care of a pesky uncle."

"I think I may have left it in my other pants pocket," Owen said.

Then something amazing happened. Owen's confidence washed over her. Despite furious blood cravings, the sores in her mouth began to heal. Her instinctive anger and hatred were overcome by his strength. Teeth shrunk back into her jaws and straightened. With barely the strength to cling to the firebrick, her wings folded back into her side and her claws became fingers.

"What's going on here?" Jean-Louis bellowed in anger. "Is this some sort of code?" Javier continued to circle the smokestack, oblivious to the change in tenor.

Jean-Louis leaped from Owen's shoulders and over towards Abby. He sliced a gash in her wrist and drained her of the excess. Need for more blood pulsed through Abby, and her uncle knew it. Taking out his spiked flail, he propelled it into Owen's back where it dug deep into the flesh. Owen groaned, but he didn't cry out.

"Angels are listening for your screams. You will raise a glorious song." Jean-Louis said. "Wail for the musical pipe organ. Your God may even answer your prayers."

Blood smell tormented her hunger, but she closed her eyes and concentrated on Owen's thoughts. He held the reins on her desires. "L'oncle, you're wrong." Jean-Louis glanced away from his prey. "I've never heard him scream. Not from pain." Not since Kenny dragged him across that deck of the swimming pool. She finally understood why. "You were horrified of the monster I became."

"No, never," Owen whispered. "It is what I caused … to you."

"I saved you," Abby said. "They were going to drown you in the pool." His words couldn't explain it. He wasn't horrified or repulsed by her demon, her cravings for blood. He was horrified by the screams which created it. He felt responsible for her ferocity. One thing worse than murder – creating a monster out of someone you love. In his own way, he had always understood.

Somewhere nearby, they heard glass shatter from a violent impact followed by a rush of wind as though from a flame – but it was outside the furnace and they were protected by fire brick.

Jean-Louis cackled. "They all scream." He tugged downward – to tear away Owen's skin, but Abby intervened. Feeling the sharp pain as though it were digging into her own back, she sprang onto Owen and forced the sharp tines out of his muscles. "It's all right," Owen whispered with compassion and understanding. "I'm not frightened."

_He's trying to comfort me?_

"I know," Abby said. A tear of frustration streamed down her cheek. "I'm the one who's frightened," she whispered. She struggled against the desire. With the full flexibility of her form, she perched on his shoulders and brushed her lips against the recesses of his neck. The blood was so close. Sweeter than the infant. His skin was warm and soft. She yearned for the tender response of his muscles which flexed in concert with her kiss.

_It's okay, Abby_

She heard the echo of his thoughts. He was that close to her._ How can he be so calm_?

This was her opening to foreswear her will. Six years of desire led to this one instant … this one choice. It would be so simple. Her uncle's prodding absolved her of guilt. Her teeth grazed his skin; her tongue recoiled from the sharp salty flavor of his perspiration. Owen's blood pleaded with a pitch of a sweet harmony. For the moment she was able to keep her teeth in check. Owen wasn't afraid, but Abby was terrified. _I hear them all._ _There are too many voices in my head._

But one rang above the clutter. _I'm calm because I choose to be._

Lacking ability to control his own desire, Javier dropped down from above and joined Abby on Owen's torso. The rope swung from side to side within the chamber. His claws scraped Owen trying to gain a solid footing. "I gotta have some," he howled through his sharpened teeth. "I'm hungry."

The change came upon her monstrous form. She hissed at Javier forcing him to take flight from Owen's back. Barbed talons swiped at Javier as he raced up the length of the smokestack in fear. Her uncle enjoyed the caper. Too many thoughts crowded out her own. So close. Jean-Louis, Javier, Owen … they all battled for her attention. A feverish tumult of madness. She screamed for him.

Her uncle's laughter faded when her claws swung against Owen's bonds, releasing him. She fluttered her wings and flew from Owen's shoulders into her uncle. The full force of her passionate fury pummeled Jean-Louis as Owen fell all the way to the base of the furnace – into the bones of those left before him. Her teeth tore into her uncle's neck, she drew her measure of blood in return.

"Not now, Abigail," Jean-Louis protested. She sensed his conflict … his weakness. He enjoyed the pain. But he grabbed her by the wing, fighting the desire and ripper he away from his neck. "We'll play later." Jean-Louis tossed her haphazardly through the furnace door into the mill where she crashed into one of the crucibles. It would have to be enough. _Owen has a chance_.

**Selkie**

She stroked the head of Sanctus, and released him from his shackles. Sadness nearly engulfed her for what she was about to do. Sensing her worry, the swan snapped at her hand. She placed her arms around his wings and body and lifted him up to the altar. The worst part of the prayer was on her, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was running behind. She felt a sudden sense of urgency … she needed to hurry. She stroked his head again out of love and kindness. It was a good head. "I'm sorry, Sanctus."

She raised the cleaver above her head and held it still for a moment. Courage … she needed to find the strength. The battle against the shadow of oblivion isn't easy. Nor should it be. It will never end, but she can't give in. Sacrifice is necessary.

She pushed the swan's head against the stone altar, squeezed her eyes shut, and brought the blade down. With one furious stroke, the cleaver clanged against the stone and separated the head from the body. The worst part was over. She inhaled a few deep breaths and opened her eyes. Holding the swan up by his feet, she tilted the neck over the agate geode bowl. He was larger and heavier than she expected. Placing the geode on the floor improved the angle.

Once full, she lifted the geode onto the altar and edged it into the fire. The blood began to boil and congeal. It thickened to a viscous red paste. She pulled the geode away from the fire with her tongs. Allowing it to cool, she lifted it up above the smoke and recited the next stanza.

V_essel of grace restores the body blest_

_Renews the life of the loved one distressed_

_Bring forth the fire, purify the taint_

_Consume the concentrated blood of a saint_

With her heart thumping wildly, Selkie tilted the geode to her lips and drank from the graceful blue vessel. She recoiled from the flavor. The thickened blood blended with the salts of the crystal agate to form bitter, tangy flavor. She knew that taste from somewhere … she recognized it as an old friend. The knowledge agitated her and aggravated her pressing sense of urgency. _It tastes like poison_.

**Tony Sacco**

Tony was relieved to finally take some action, even though he did not understand precisely why. He had felt inadequate ever since they discovered the bodies at Lake Pueblo. _No … before that_. Ever since that drop of blood chose him on Halloween. Jane provided the only answer, so he bought it. The murders had worried him more than he would ever admit to his wife. They were unnatural, and he was willing to try just about anything to cleanse the city.

Guerard brought the homemade PVC cannons and Jane brought cocktails of a Molotav variety. She also brought several cans of hairspray. In the last few days they purchased PVC from a distant Hechinger's along with a few spark igniters for a gas grill. Wearing latex gloves, Guerard showed them all how to assemble the pieces into a cannon, using pipe sealant for each joint.

Yesterday, they tested it with a potato against the concrete walls of Tony's basement – drop in the potato, then load hair spray through a small hole in the cylinder. They all stood back while Guerard depressed the spark igniter. _Boom_! It worked perfectly. Now Tony had a beautiful, circular stain of potato splatter on his wall.

Gasoline was loaded into ten separate jars (also purchased from another town), along with motor oil and stuffed with wadded kerosene soaked, cotton handkerchiefs. Tony wanted to test the full complement of their cannon, but their desire for secrecy outweighed the desire for perfection. The test would have to wait until the final performance.

All of them wore gloves to prevent fingerprint identification. Tony had his moments, but he was sure he had never participated in anything quite this illegal or destructive before. Shaking from overwrought nerves, he tried to steady himself.

"Shouldn't we carry pitchforks or torches?" Tony wondered.

"Yeah, because then we wouldn't stand out at all," Guerard answered

They stationed themselves in hilly brush area behind the mill, overlooking the river. With military precision, Jane sprayed the aerosol into the base, Tony lit the cocktail with a butane lighter and dropped it into the barrel. A pair of binoculars dangled around his neck so he could serve as spotter for the mission. He held his breath in anticipation.

Guerard pointed the barrel in the direction of the large plate glass windows of the two story office area and pressed the red button. With a bang and a poof of smoke the bottle sailed across the sky. _I hear the whistle of incoming mortar shells_. Plate glass shattered from the impact raining safety glass on the sidewalk. The jar struck the carpet. A loud whoosh erupted when the fire ignited. The all smiled with relief with the first success. "Good shot," Tony said. "Aim a little lower for the bottom floor next time." _Only nine more to go_.

The Battle of Pueblo had begun in earnest.

**Owen**

Covered in ash from his victims, Owen pushed open the door and emerged into the dark subbasement. He had been here before and knew the way out. Crashing over ladders and debris he stumbled to the basement door. Once there, it was a clear shot to the exit. That's where he found his old sledgehammer, discarded next to the stairs - the one he propped under the push bar to keep the lock engaged. _I can use that_, Owen thought and grabbed the weapon. Searching for Abby he turned and raced up the stairs to the main production floor.

He saw her prone on the floor next to crucibles. So still. Owen tried to get close, but swooping in, Jean-Louis intervened. He guided Owen into the far corners of the mill floor. He pinned him there, the same way Javier once pinned an old homeless man in a blind alley. Each time Owen made a move toward an exit, Jean-Louis maneuvered to cut off his path of escape. Owen shoved the sledgehammer in his direction, but he easily avoided the blow with a cackle of laughter. "I am glad Abby left you for me," he said. "The night is still young, but it has already been exciting."

The family of bats swooped out of the roof, away from a calamity of some sort. Air rats escaping a sinking ship.

Jean-Louis was playing with him. Like a cat with a rat, Abby's uncle enjoyed the sport more than the kill. Fortunately, Owen had his own cat. Toto leaped out of the darkness and dug his claws into Jean-Louis's back. With an angry howl, he tossed the cat against the wall. The distraction provided Owen with enough time to escape all the way to the mill exit ... but not enough time to make it through.

Jean-Louis grabbed Owen by the ankle. Holding him upside down, he carried Owen outside into the night. Thirty feet above the roof, Jean-Louis let go. Owen plunged, wishing this was an unusual experience. The tin roof vibrated with the angry thunder of the gods. Until then, he had hung onto the sledge, but the impact forced him to let it go. It skirted several yards away.

Jean-Louis landed on the roof and strode toward Owen with casual relish. His confidence shattered when the coal elevator exploded in a shower of fire.

**Tony Sacco**

They fired two more cannonballs into the front office building and repositioned themselves to aim at the main mill structure. The new location was perhaps a hundred yards away where they fired a new volley toward the mill. "Too low," Tony said sighting the explosion through his binoculars.

"No shit," Guerard said. "I can see from here that I hit the parking lot."

Through the binoculars Tony saw the side door burst open and the beast careen out of the mill. With a few flaps of his wings, he raged above the roof in flight. _Jane was right … this is ground zero_. He completely missed a second beast fly out through the tower. The one hovering in the sky captured his full attention. It carried something large and heavy above the mill and dropped it onto the roof. The metal roof roared as the object struck. Tony tried to focus the binoculars on the image, but it kept moving out of his view.

"It's a body," Guerard said.

"I recognize him," Tony said focusing on the roof. He looked at Jane with irritation. "It's Owen. It looks like he's on our side in this fight."

"It doesn't matter," Jane said far too quickly for Tony's comfort. "Collateral damage. The mill is the problem."

"Help me aim. With a clear shot, I think I can hit the beast directly," Guerard said.

"Be careful, you couldn't even hit the building on the last shot."

After loading the muzzle, Guerard angled the cannon up high and the shot fired way up into the sky. The shot arched in the air and missed winged creature by a country mile. It hit the tower and landed other side of the roof from the beast and Owen. When it struck, the fire must have ignited some coal dust – the roof erupted in an inferno. Flames roared down the bucket conveyor to the railroad tracks. "That was a great shot," Tony said. "Let's hurry through the rest."

He watched as Owen stood up on the roof and faced the creature with a weapon in his hands. Tony wondered aloud, "How in the hell is that kid going to get down from there?"

**Selkie**

Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. She felt warm – either due to the fire or the fever of poison. The warmth goaded her into haste. She worried about making a mistake, but she had to finish. She had to atone for the horror of her actions. Poisons could be flushed out with the completion of the spell. _That is the best I could wish for_. The rest of the prayer was confusing. Selkie was unsure if she understood it completely.

She withdrew the dove from the cage, kissed it on the crown of its head, and placed it on the altar next to the fire. "My paraclete," she whispered. She arranged seven hyssop stalks along his back and down his tail like a ragged peacock. Grasping the red wool yarn by the end, she wrapped it around the dove and the stalks lashing them to his back, making certain that his wings could fly free.

Noises of shattering glass echoed down the stair case. It startled her from her efforts and concentration. Vandals or something. She would investigate later. Now she focused on completing the ritual.

Dipping the hyssop stalks into the congealed swan's blood reddened everything all the way up to his tail. _Blood magic – very powerful and very dangerous_. She turned the tail toward the fire and lit the stalks until they were consumed in flame. Before the flame burned all the way to the feathers, she dipped it into the clay pot of Arkansas River water, extinguishing the fire and cleansing the bird from all stain. She held the dove above the altar and recited the final two stanzas:

_Bind the flame in a wool robe of scarlet_

_Destroy Lilith, reigning Queen, the harlot_

_Convey the unclean, darkness' bitter strife_

_Quench the fire; bathe in the river of life_

_Hyssop aspergil, a stalk from the copse_

_Scale the refuge, mine the essence of hope_

_Seven times sprinkle the oil, seven strokes_

_Courage of faith despoils the devil's yokes_.

She released the bird and allowed it to fly through the flue, conveying the bitter poison of darkness along with it up to the heavens. "Goodbye sweet paraclete. Cleanse us from the evil presence."

She heard a noise on the basement steps behind her. Turning she saw the vision of a demon, a gargoyle from her dreams, bleeding from his forehead, eyes, nose, and wings. He was moaning with suffering. "Please help me," he said. "I was drawn here, but I don't know why."

_Is it the angel_? She wondered. Moved with pity, she said, "Well don't just stand there. Come on in."

As if by some alchemy, the bleeding stopped. The mystical, magical cure Selkie always expected. The prayer must be working. The creature and Selkie approached each other. She wrapped her arms around the wings of fate and embraced it.

**Owen**

His thoughts blurred from the collision with the roof. He propped himself up on his elbows, gasping for clean air. His chest heaved, trying to draw in a painful breath.

Abby's uncle circled him, giving him time, savoring the kill.

The tiny, silver bell in his pocket – he never considered it a valuable weapon, but he had an idea. Abby reacted strongly to its peal. She attacked him instinctively when he sounded it.

He stood up and faced his tormenter. Withdrawing the bell from his pocket, he ripped the tape off the clapper and threw it toward the beast. Jean-Louis went crazy from the sound and, just as Owen hoped, he chased after the allure of a tinkling bell until it finally settled on the opposite edge of the roof.

The delay gave Owen a few extra valuable seconds. Pain echoed through him as he regathered the hammer. He turned and faced Abby's uncle while he strolled toward Owen with malevolence. His irritation had been piqued by this annoying "pet" of Abby's. Behind him a second projectile crashed into the smokestack. The inferno covered the entire west side of the mill.

The smoke reminded Owen of the inferno that was Erasmus. _Was that just this morning_? His confidence wavered. How easy would it be to give up? He had known so much death in his short life – Kenny, the old man in the alley, and Teodilina Escalante. Ashes in the wind. Blaise fought the battle with his own cowardice and won. And Lazarus. He accepted fate with a simple, eloquent grace. Those were the examples - the ones he wanted to emulate.

This realization steeled Owen. _What was the worst that could happen – death or eternal torment with Abby?_

Just like Selkie, he accepted the future with passionate calm. Not because it was preordained, not destiny or fate, but because he chose to.

And fire was Owen's element, not the demon's. Fire can purify or it can destroy. Or it can harden iron into steel. Owen had been tested in fire and passed through the needle's eye. With determination arising from the hardened experiences of his life, Owen faced the fiery onslaught of fate. He welcomed it with open arms … and a sledgehammer.

**Tony Sacco**

Thrilled by the excitement of the conflagration, Tony was fully involved and wanted to see this thing to the end. Nine of the ten projectiles had been launched against the mill. Seven of them struck their targets. Other than the first few shot into the office areas, they were doing little damage to the main structure. Fire raged on the roof and the parking lot, but the production area continued to stand. In the smoke, he lost sight of the battle between Owen and the creature, but he didn't give the boy much chance.

Sirens raged in the distance. Someone had alerted the fire department. It was time to make a controlled retreat. Tony grabbed the rocket launcher, final Molotov mixture and a can of hairspray. "You guys go. I'm going to try to get closer for the last round and then get out of here." He waited for one of them to protest, but they didn't. _Come on … talk me out of it._

Weighed down by the gear, he skirted through a torn opening in the fence wire. The fire blazed hotter, the closer he approached the building. He yanked open the side door and propped it ajar with one arm. A great target for his final mortar shell stood in the main mill floor – a huge pile of wooden pallets. He sprayed the hairspray into the base of the cannon and tossed the empty canister to the side. With his Bic lighter, he lit the wick on the end of the bottle, lowered it in the canister and aimed. He depressed the red button to trigger the spark. Nothing happened. _Dammit_!

He saw the fire engine lights getting closer on Fourth Street. He pressed the button several more times in rapid succession and finally the cannon fired. He was caught off guard by the massive fireball blast from the pile of wood. Knocked down by the concussive force of the explosion, he dropped the cannon and blew clear of the doorway. He picked himself up, and then, he scampered through the opening in the fence just as the fire engines turned the corner and began unloading the gear and crew. He hightailed it all the way back to his cruiser stationed across from the church.

He was surprised to find several other police officers in the area wondering about his car. They were investigating the disappearance of Father Erasmus. "I have a bad sunburn," was the best explanation for his red face and singed hair. "You know … fell asleep in the tanning bed."

"What's with the scrapes and bruises?" someone asked.

"Are you guys suddenly detectives or something?"

**Owen**

"This has been so pleasurable. I'm almost sorry to see it come to an end," Jean-Louis proclaimed to Owen on top of the roof. "If Gaspar were this lively, I may have chosen him over my dear Abigail. Have you tasted her?" he taunted. "She is delicious."

Owen studied his foe patiently testing him with a few swings of the mallet. Waves of heat were overpowering. After the cold winter, it was almost pleasant... for the first few minutes. "You don't belong here," Owen said more calmly than he could imagine. "The roof is mine. You place is the basement with the rats and vermin." Owen wondered if he could endure the heat until morning. _Probably not_.

"You may believe that you know me. I feel threatened by the fire? Is that it?" Jean-Louis said. "I assure you I am not. Why would I be afraid of fire ... when I can fly?" With a few beats of his wings, he circle around Owen and hissed in his general direction. "I would rather you survive and join my little flock, but I would not be bothered much if you are consumed by fire. Eternal life with Abigail and I … or death. Choose wisely."

_The decision should be easy. That's what I wanted … right_? But what Jean-Louis promised was a lie. Erasmus … he recognized the perversion and chose eternal torment over a hollow, empty life of pain. There are choices worse than death. Owen finally realized he had something to fight for. Eternal damnation or eternal life. His future was an empty canvas that he had yet to paint.

A bird fluttered above the mill, framed by the full moon. The dove struggled to fly higher. Something tied to his tail interfered with his flight. The warm air gave the dove purchase, and he was able to ascend higher. It provoked an illusion of the dove floating all the way to the stars. Clouds of smoke opened up just enough to reveal his target ... the constellation of Andromeda. The beautiful princess in the image of Abby. Fire is not Jean-Louis' only weakness … out here the stars illuminated the kingdom of Heaven, _and the face of evil has no power over me; not here._

When Owen glanced back at Jean-Louis, he was surprised to see him on his knees, as if overcome by a sudden, powerful vulnerability. Owen tested him again with the hammer, but he didn't react. _It could be a trap._ One of Abby's tricks he knew well. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Perhaps you don't have a choice," Jean-Louis hissed, "The weakness moves me. I do not believe I can't afford to let you die, at least not right away." His stomach moaned with the familiar sound of blood cravings.

"You may think that I feel threatened by you," Owen said with the hope of provoking him into action. "I assure you I am not." Owen placed the hammer at the ready. "To live in cowardice or die in courage - my choice when it comes down to it."

Abby's uncle lunged at Owen, but there was no force behind it. Owen didn't stop to think about the cause of the weakness. He swung the hammer and heard the blood-curdling crack as it struck his neck. Jean-Louis collapsed. Owen found the strength to watch as the light of Jean-Louis' eyes left his body. He didn't even think it was especially brave.

The roof bulge a few inches from the sudden explosion of the fireball beneath him. It shuddered, and then collapsed under their weight. _Dammit_, Owen thought, _if only I had wings._

Fate intervened on his behalf. Of all the places in the mill for Owen to descend, he fell squarely on the mattress where he spent several months sleeping. Pain shattered through him, but it meant that he was still alive … for the moment.

Just a few feet away from him he saw Abby's body blistering on one side from the heat. She lay so still. Worried for her survival, Owen crawled over next to her and shook her, trying to wake her. Nothing. Owen almost didn't hear the moan. One more task for the night – remove Abby from the mill. Then they would have to find another place to stay and quickly. Morning was coming.

He stood up and was nearly overcome by smoke. He fell back to his knees with a gagging, hacking cough and spotted the chalice lying on its side. It was on the other side of the mill – away from the fire. Grabbing Abby by the wrist, he dragged her over next to the chalice, keeping his head close to the floor. The air was clearer and cooler in this section of the mill. He could almost breathe. With a touch he discovered the chalice wasn't even warm.

There is an unusual property of liquids that Owen had often observed, but never considered important – until now. Surface tension. You can pour a liquid completely out of a container, return the container upright. From the remaining liquid that coated the sides, a small pool will form on the bottom. It occurs just about every time and it happened this time, too. Looking inside the chalice, Owen noticed a small remnant of wine, less than a teaspoon, pooled in the curve of the cup.

He carefully lifted the chalice to Abby's lips and prayed that this wine would not fail as all of the other attempts did. Almost immediately after pouring the remaining wine through her lips, Abby's normally cold skin started to warm to the touch. _Life was returning_? He rubbed his fingers over her flush cheeks. He never felt such warmth in her before, not even from fever. She glowed orange-red. The temperature rose steadily until it became unbearable. Owen burned himself on her skin when she burst into a raging inferno.

Owen held his breath and, challenging the torrential heat, ran back into the smoky mill floor toward the direction Abby's sleeping bin. Inside he grabbed the first blanket he found, the crimson wool blanket that disguised blood stains so effectively, and raced back to her before he finally took in a breath of air. He covered Abby's entire body in an attempt to smother the fire.

It didn't work, the warmth of the fire radiated through the blanket. Owen had to try something. _ What the hell difference does all this make, if I fail?_ He threw Abby over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and endured the heat of the fire. He stumbled down the stairs and out the door.

He heard someone shout from the parking lot. "Look, someone was in there." "Don't worry about him now ... he's out. Let the paramedics take care of them."

Not bothering to wait for the paramedics, Owen continued to run, faster than he ever ran before. Across seven lanes of railroad tracks he ran faster than memory and time. Without thought to the depth of the raging river Owen plunged into the water. Due to the spring thaw, the water level of this living river was well above his head.

And, after all this time, he still couldn't swim.

He closed his eyes and sank until his feet touched bottom. This is the narrow part of the river … it's only fifty feet across. _How hard could it be_? He placed one foot in front of the other and found it was plenty difficult. It might as well be a chasm of a thousand miles. The weight of the water-soaked blanket worked to unbalance his footing. The current tried to knock him off his feet with every step.

He held his breath and forced himself to continue … one step at a time. After only a few steps, he thought he might collapse from exertion and lack of air, but he pressed forward. A few more steps; he was surprised to find himself broaching the surface.

He scaled the bank and laid Abby next to the copse of hyssop. Near exhaustion, he glanced across the river he saw dozens of lights from police cars and fire engines. The massive smokestack shuddered. Firemen barked orders and hurriedly backed away from the mill. Within a few moments, the tower came thundering down in a rush of brick and debris. He turned to avoid the wave of smoke and saw the opposite bank. _Damn, I'm not even completely across the river._ He was on the island of hope right across from where Father Erasmus died yesterday morning.

He pulled back the blanket covering Abby's face. The fire which had engulfed her was extinguished. Her hair and eyebrows were singed completely away along with her clothes. Her skin was flawless and bright pink. The blisters that he noticed in the mill had vanished.

He rubbed his fingers over the crest of her eyes. Without her hair, she looked much younger than her twelve years; more like a newborn child. She was perfect and beautiful. This precious gem of creation touched him in more ways than he dared wonder. Owen fretted for this child that he had in his care for all these years. She was so fragile in his arms; so delicate lying next to the budding hyssop.

Flurries of many shapes and sizes began to fall. Owen leaned back on his haunches; relieved that they made it this far, but not even sure Abby was alive. He stared at the furious maelstrom accompanied by the fountains of fire hoses. "I guess we have to find a new home," he said. "How about California? I hear it's beautiful in the spring." Snowflakes warmed his skin. He held out his hand and captured a few, but they didn't melt – _ash from the fire_.

Abby was silent on the question of where to go. Up until this point, he simply reacted to events, but now he had time to consider things. He had no idea what to do next. _I'm going to have to get off this island and under the bridge before the sun rises_. Paralyzed with indecision, he considered the puzzle before him. He needed Abby's help. He took several deep calming breaths trying to think. Underneath the acrid smell of the fire, he noticed the sweet flowery cinnamon odor that reminded him of Abby's hair after washing.

_Won't have to worry about that for awhile – maybe not ever. I don't think her hair grows._

Behind the smell of hyssop, he noticed the aroma of cedar – the city's symbol of hope. _The force of prophecy weaves the thread of fate. I just have to make the right choices – I have to have faith._

Sap burst through newly formed cracks in a river of thick, amber fluid._ … Essence_? Grabbing one of the hyssop stalks, he dipped it into the sap oozing out of the cracks in the twisted cedar tree. He placed the stalk onto Abby's lips. Oil seeped inside with no obvious response. He tried to search deep inside himself for the courage ... his hope. Repeating the steps, six more times, he touched the hyssop to her pink skin, her eyes, ears and nose.

That was it. That was all he could think to do. If the sap was the essence, then the prayer was complete and the Queen of the Damned should be destroyed. Her uncle was gone. That may be the only satisfaction Owen finds in this life.

March in Colorado - cold winds alternated with waves of heat – the fire in the mill was dying. Damp clothes clung to Owen and burned from the chill. Just a few feet away sat Blaise's camp. He wrapped the blanket around Abby's face and head again, lifted her onto his shoulder, and carried her body the rest of the way across.

A short while later, they were nestled under the bridge abutment. Warmth from the roaring campfire started to dry his clothes. He even found some produce in the niche. While taking a bite from the juicy onion he remembered for the first time tonight – Selkie. _I let her down again_.

There was nothing more he could do here. Owen tucked Abby up tight against the bridge and placed a few odds and ends around her body. _With luck nobody will even realize it's a person_. He walked down the dirt path and crossed back over the river on First Street as the sun was clearing the horizon. By early morning, he wandered up the driveway to the house on Goat Hill. The house was still and quiet with a battered door jamb. Not sure what to expect he entered the house and descended into the basement.

Smell of cedar smoke mixed with the stench of dampness … both were overwhelmed by an odor Owen knew so well from years of living with Abby … the musty stench of drying blood. With trepidation, Owen turned the corner. First he saw the head of Sanctus, the swan. "Selkie," he said with no response. The next thing he saw was Javier, huddled in the corner, pale and shivering, as though from illness. Abby looked like this once. For a week after she drank the infected blood of the homeless man in the alley. _Isabel Clark's father_.

Turning into the basement, Owen witnessed the remains of a struggle. A clay pot lay shattered at the foot of the altar along with the bent and broken dove's cage. Of four tall candles, three of them were knocked over and snuffed out. The only one remaining was that of the bittersweet smell of truth.

Sadness swept over him. On the floor, between the stone altar and the gateway to the underworld, the angel of death had his offering. Selkie's body lay face down, covered with the residue of her own blood. In the hard ground that served as the basement floor Selkie had scrawled, with her own blood, the words, "Thank you, Owen."

_F__or what_?

What was the power behind one more death on Owen's conscience? He left so many nameless people behind the wake of his life. But this was Selkie. She deserved more than an empty death in the basement. She died alone, without him, and that loneliness haunted him. If he had just been there, he could have helped her; he was sure of that. But he made a choice. He chose to attend Abby first. Selkie thanked him, and he didn't believe he could ever understand why.

In the practiced care of many years with Abby he cleaned the blood off her corpse. As he washed the sticky blood away from her skin he was surprised to find it immaculate and whole. The dove tattoo on her chest and the butterfly tattoo on her thigh washed away along with the scars. He scrubbed her arm and the serpent tattoo rinsed away. He rubbed his fingers over the vein which once held a deep scar. Even the holes in her ears were closed over. When done, the bucket was filled with bloody water mixed with tattoo ink and the child he knew as Selkie lay before him. Lifeless, but angelic in every way.

The entire time, Javier huddled at the edge of the basement wall, cowering in a state between truth and dreams. "I don't want to die," he groaned. He flinched in reaction to some violent memory. "I just want to breathe."

Owen picked up one of the manacles used to hold the swan and placed it around Javier's ankle. He slid the padlock into place until he heard it click shut. He couldn't bring himself to kill him, but he couldn't allow him to fly free.

He carried Selkie's body upstairs, placed her on her bed, and selected clothes for her. He dressed her in fashions like he always remembered – khaki parachute pants and a basic black T-shirt. Without her makeup and earrings, she didn't look quite right – she looked beatific … an angel. At peace, without the deceit of jewelry and makeup, she was transcendent.

Owen kissed her on the lips and imagined her response. They remained soft and warm. For a moment Owen thought she might still be alive as a vampire of some sort. But she wasn't; he knew the difference.

Before he left, Owen selected some clothing for Abby. He had difficulty finding something in her size, but he settled on a long beige dress … something like his mother's. He placed it in a plastic bag and ran out of the door toward Abby's hiding spot.

Early afternoon sun shined through the clear blue spring sky. Even in the distance, he witnessed the smoke rising from the remains of the steel mill. Owen decided to circle around –avoid the mill and the crowds. He would head back across the First Street Bridge, then up the path along the river.

The chosen path took him along the rear of the city buildings. In retrospect, that was probably a mistake. Owen was certain of his error when a police car pulled next to him and blared, "Where are you headed in such a hurry? Into the car."

It was that police officer, the one who has been on his case. Owen picked up the pace trying to move faster, but the cruiser cut him off. He opened the passenger side door. "In the car … come on," he said. "We need to talk."


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Please, Come Back to Me

**Owen**

Despite his protests, Owen found himself back in the interrogation room with Guerard and Sacco. "Owen, you were picked up because you are in violation of your probationary agreement. You were supposed to meet with a parole officer weekly. Our records indicate that you haven't made one visit."

"What happened to your eyebrows?" Owen asked.

The officer ignored him. They displayed a photograph of a bloody swimming pool, body parts strewn on the diving board and walkways. "Owen Wheeler, what was your role in the deaths at Los Alamos?" Guerard asked him.

Owen panicked remembering his helplessness. "I couldn't breathe," he said. "They held me underwater. I couldn't see a thing."

"What about last night," Sacco asked. "What were you doing?"

"Fighting for my life," Owen said. "I was fighting for everything."

"Did you win?"

"I don't know," he cried. "I can't believe you stopped me." In frustration, Owen pushed up against the metal interrogation table. It didn't budge. Somebody had bolted it to the floor. "I was trying to find out." Owen placed his arms on the table and rested his head. He had been awake all night – two nights. "I am so tired. I'm tired of running."

After a little more interrogation without replies from Owen, someone knocked at the door and Sacco answered it. He received a terse message and a manila folder. After closing the door, he turned back to the room. He sat down at the table and addressed Owen sincerely. "We've got to decide what to do with you. You know ... I couldn't fuckin' believe it when I saw you on the roof of that mill. Personally, I think you're a hero."

"You saw me?"

"Yeah, too bad we can't tell anybody." He shook his head out of wonder. "I don't even know how you survived. Now, you need to decide on your future." He opened the new folder and scanned the materials. "There are two paths open to you – jail or a drug treatment program. Your choice."

"I'm tired of making bad choices," Owen said.

"Well make a good one. The fire is out. We've declared the scene part of our case ... which is not even a stretch. You're welcome to tag along if you want." He returned Owen's belongings. "What's with the dress?"

Owen didn't answer that question, but agreed to bear witness to the carnage. He waited alone in the interrogation room for the policemen to make a few phone calls and reports.

A little while later, they were stomping through the skeletal structure of the burned out mill. A crowd of curious onlookers lined the street. Firemen were walking around, checking the spaces for any flareups. Investigators picked out pieces of broken glass for evidence. One of them said to Sacco, "No civilians. This area isn't safe for field trips. You should have left your kid at home."

"He's helping us in our investigation," Sacco replied.

Owen craned his neck to see the other side of the river. He tried to glance under the bridge, but the shadows made it impossible to see. He wanted this to be over … one way or another.

Near the burned mattress, a paramedic zipped up a body bag. "Can we take a look?" Guerard asked.

The paramedic opened the bag and Owen got a good look and bore witness to the face of evil. His body was burnt to the waist, but his head was unblemished. Two day's worth of sleepless adrenaline boiled over. He pulled back with his leg and kicked him with the force of years of frustration. With a broken spine, the head moved a lot more than expected. The paramedics watched horrified at the desecration. Sacco grabbed him by the shoulders and held him back from kicking the corpse a second time.

"Can you identify him, Owen?" Guerard asked.

It was the vision Owen captured so many times from Abby's nightmares. The endless days he spent calming her mind. "Abbè Jean-Louis Le Loutre," Owen said, "he's a priest."

"You know what's funny," Sacco said, "I guess this is a small town, after all. I recognize him, too. He looks a lot like the person we fished out of Lake Pueblo, before five years of submersion. The spittin' image of Ray Mosi – Jane's father."

"What the hell does that mean?" Guerard asked.

Sacco released his grip on Owen's shoulder. "Go ahead, kick him a few more times," Sacco said. Owen was more than happy to oblige. He pounded his foot home. Kicking didn't fix anything, but it helped release his anger. After a few more kicks, he leaned his hands on his knees panting from the effort.

"It means he was one messed up son of a bitch. We did all right," Sacco said. "Any other bodies around here, Owen?"

"The furnace." He pointed to the black metal door leading to the oven.

While they were searching, Owen glanced inside the crucibles. He found a half-melted Rubik's Cube and lithograph picture inside. The cube was frozen in place by the heat. "Do you mind if I keep these?" he asked. The fire investigators wanted all evidence to remain on the site, but Guerard gave a shrug of consent.

Three bodies were in the furnace. _At least there wasn't more … at least they didn't find me down there._ Owen could barely stomach watching as they pulled one out after the other. First the old man in the alley; then Charlie Langston, then Moira. He knew their faces as well as any other. "Can I go now?" he asked.

"Yeah, you can go." Sacco escorted him out the alley of the mill. "Someone is out here waiting for you," he said.

His heart raced with the possibilities. _Did they find Abby? Is she okay? _Then he had a disturbing thought._ I hope it's not Jane._

Jane was there, but she hardly noticed Owen as she broke through the police barrier and ran into the mill screaming for her father. For Owen, it was Gabriella and Aileen waiting outside the mill entrance. They had an infant in a stroller and Caleb by their side. "Are you ready, Owen?" Gabriella asked him, more excited than she should be to see him.

"Ready for what?"

"I found a treatment center for you. Denver was full, but when I learned you were from New Mexico, I made a few calls. There's an opening at an addiction center in Santa Fe with your name on it," Gabriella said. "You have a chance to get better. Isn't this exciting?" She held out a ticket in front of her. "Your train leaves in about an hour. We need to get moving."

_Oh, yes we do,_ Owen thought. She was a lot more enamored of the prospect than Owen was. He scanned the crowd and found an opening. He bolted for the hole, away from the crowd toward the Fourth Street Bridge.

"Shit," he heard Sacco exclaim behind him followed by the smack of rubber police soles against the concrete.

Owen made it halfway across the span before a solid grip took hold of his shoulder and prevented him from moving one step further. Owen struggled to extract himself from the solid hands. "I'm almost there. I have to help her!"

Out of breath, Sacco wheezed from the sudden effort. "I'm not as fast as I used to be. Perhaps you didn't understand the terms of our deal. Jail or rehabilitation. There is no third choice."

"Please! I'm so close."

Owen managed to wiggle himself out of the grip until the police officer held his shirt by only a couple of fingers. He almost tore the shirt hauling Owen back in. He placed both arms around Owen's chest and lifted him over his shoulders. "All that working out pays off at a time like this."

Owen looked back across the span and saw the distance growing. The bridge blocked his view, he couldn't see her. He couldn't tell if she was okay.

Sacco carried him all the way back across the bridge to the crowd outside the mill. "We'll all go together, Sacco said to his wife and Gabriella. He patted Owen on the rear. "I'll handle the cargo."

"It's okay," Gabriella said in consolation to Owen. "Sometimes you need a little push from others. It's okay to admit weakness."

Owen handed the dress to Gabriella, "I'm begging you, check under the bridge on the far side. You'll find a little girl wrapped in just a blanket. Just leave her there. Don't move her … don't touch her. When she wakes up – if she wakes up – give her this dress and let her know where I'm headed."

"Okay, I'll meet you guys on the platform." She handed Aileen the ticket and jogged across the bridge.

Owen was empty. A dress – it was all he could offer for Abby after six years. Tony set him back down on the ground making sure to block possible paths of exit. Caleb grabbed his hand, "Come on. It's time to go home. That's a good thing, right?"

"I guess so," Owen said, but he didn't feel like it was such a good thing. He followed them to the train station – a blank slate. A vagrant sat on the steps, begging for handouts. He donated a dollar, the remainder of his money. Owen had begged from the same spot one day in the snow and someone gave him only a quarter.

On the train platform, wedged between Tony and Aileen, they waited for the express to Santa Fe. In the conversation which flew across his body, Owen discovered their plans to adopt the two children. The girl didn't even have a name – Isabel Clark thought that naming her would condemn her to an early death. Perhaps she was right.

"Tony insisted on no more strays," Aileen said, "but then I reminded him of the blessings to those who take care of widows and orphans. It was Father Erasmus's suggestion," she said in a way that ended the discussion.

They were worried about Javier. Owen didn't have the courage to tell them the truth.

Before long, Owen's heart stammered when he saw Gabriella ascend to the platform. He took in a deep breath and held it. She walked casually over to the group, still carrying the dress. "The campfire was smoldering, but nobody was there," she said handing the dress back to Owen.

_What happened to her? Could she have finally walked out into the sun?_ "Keep it," he muttered, "for someone else. Someone who needs it more than me." _She told me once, she owed her uncle everything. She wanted to walk out into the sun, but something always stopped her. The memory of Jean-Louis may have been all that kept her alive … and I killed him._

"You will find somebody at the other end be there to meet you when you arrive," Aileen said. "Good luck."

He boarded the train, empty and alone. The train car was nearly deserted save for a family and a couple of well-dressed business men. Owen chose a seat far away from the rest of them. He was hollow on the ride back. Without a trunk at his feet, this train car was his prison. His ticket was punched, he didn't even remember by whom.

Leaving the city, they crossed over the bridge – the very bridge under which Abby hid from the sun on their first day in Pueblo. It felt so final, like he was abandoning her.

He pondered Abby's fate on the long, desolate ride to Santa Fe. The weight of uncertainty overwhelmed him more than the possibility she was gone forever. He wanted some sort of closure so that he could move forward. Moira's mother painfully flashed her picture around B Street. She received her answer from the bottom of a furnace today. Her pain of uncertainty exchanged for Owen's. _This is my penance_.

The train passed by every desolate loading station along the way. Each time they approached one, Owen considered it another missed opportunity to get off and hitchhike back to Pueblo. But the express train plowed through without providing that opportunity. Gabriella planned his exodus too well.

He might remain on the train past his stop, but the conductor helped him off. Sunny Santa Fe was at least ten degrees warmer then Pueblo. Not that it mattered a whit. The warmth didn't penetrate his skin.

Exiting the train, Owen found someone waiting for him. His father reached out to shake his hand. Owen refused the greeting. "What are you doing here? Where's mom?" Six years wasn't long enough.

"She couldn't make it," he said.

They walked to his father's truck in silence. On the road to the treatment center, his father tried to engage him in some conversation. "I know I've made mistakes," he said. "I'm no better than anybody else that way."

_Better than some, worse than others. _"Is that why Mom isn't here? Did you hit her?"

"You get right to the point, don't you?" Uncertain how to answer, his father played around with the radio and checked his mirrors. "Your mother and I both made a lot of mistakes. After three battered girlfriends and a court order, I got some help. I break a few walls every now and again, but I haven't hit anybody for three years, two months and fourteen days." His father rubbed his gray mustache with his hands. He had grown old while Owen was gone. "I don't expect you to forgive me, but I'll try to earn it."

Owen didn't think that forgiveness would come that easy. He was no Erasmus.

They drove up to the treatment center where his father unloaded Owen and parked the car. Inside the lobby, Owen approached the front desk. Like a hotel clerk, the admissions nurse said, "Mr. Wheeler, we've been expecting you." She handed him a stack of papers to complete.

Owen sat down in the lobby and concentrated on his paperwork. _How many times must I sign that it is okay for them to treat me?_ He left the question of HIV/AIDS blank on the form.

Off to the side of the reception area was a casual lounge for visitors … an upgraded version of the Wayside Hope homeless shelter. From the area, he was startled to hear his name called in a whisper. "Owen?"

He glanced up at a long blond hair woman in a wheel chair, wearing a cream colored, Terrycloth robe. "Mom?" he stammered. He ran to her and threw his arms around. The first person he was glad to see. Her shaking hands caressed his face in wonder.

Having checked in a week earlier, his mother was a patient there, too. "I've been sober for two whole weeks," she said, "it's not very long. It sounds pathetic just talking about it." She wiped her nose with a hanky. Just hearing about Owen, after six years, gave her the push to try.

"No, it sounds wonderful." Owen said. His eyes welled up in tears. "Tomorrow it will be fifteen days. That's like one more."

"You were always good at math," she said. Investigators had been asking about him. The rumor spread that he was still alive. That was her motivation. If she could do it, so could he. Maybe he could find the strength to complete his recovery. It was a start.

Owen checked in to a small private room for the first part of his treatment. He placed the warped Rubik's cube and picture of Abby's father on the nightstand. He was unpacked.

The nurse had him change his clothes and she connected the IV. "The first treatment," she said, "is an aggressive chemical to try to flush you of the dependency. It is very painful. We'll keep you sedated during the treatment and wean you from the drugs slowly." She kept herself busy while she talked. "I'm not going to lie to you, Owen. The success rate is not very high … perhaps thirty percent. Worse, your body may not have the strength to handle the trauma of treatment. Some people will never let go of the dependency … you may even die."

She opened up the drip to the sedative and methadone. "Success or failure is mostly up to the patient. You have to want it to work." Owen drifted quickly off to sleep.

His body arched in intense pain. He floated in a turbulent, bloody river along with a multitude of others. His feet were tethered to the bottom and his face barely broached the surface. He forced his head back in a tilt clearing his mouth for breathing. The bloody river boiled, frying Owen's skin.

On the edge of the riverbank, towering apple trees swayed in the wind. Instead of fruit, thousands of people dangled from the branches, hung by the neck from rope. Harpies with the face of a girl and the wings of a bat gnawed at their flesh. One harpy tore into the hole behind Charlie Langston's skull, savoring the meat. Another victim of the feast, a young police officer, lost an eye and his nose.

When Charlie twirled to overlook the river, his expression brightened. "Hey, everybody look. It's Owen."

A chorus of "hi's" and "pleased to meet you's" arose in a murmuring clatter from the other occupants of the tree. Owen responded in kind when his mouth broached the surface.

"I knew you'd make it," Charlie responded with a great big grin on his face. "Welcome to hell!"

Before long, the boredom of silence overcame him and Owen settled into eternity. He concentrated on maintaining his rhythm of breathing along with the flowing water. An interesting pattern broke the silence. The boiling bubbles of the river popped and the swishing of the tree branches repeated the same arrangement over and over. The sounds amused his puzzle solving mind – sway, sway, sway … pop, sway, sway … pop … sway, pop. _What does it mean? _ _That's my name … who is talking to me in Morse code?_

With this realization, he heard the sounds of another word offending the silence: P,L,E,A,S,E. "_Owen, please" … what does it mean?_ Before he had the chance to hear more of the message, he felt a wrenching, heart-stopping pain in his chest. The agony deepened until finally he broke free of his tether and was sucked underwater.

Dragged underwater for days, Owen found that he lost the desire or need to breathe. He enjoyed the underwater life – fish and weeds that thrived on the bloody water. Catfish tentacles tickled his arms, but refused to bite. He almost enjoyed the sensation until the water spit him out onto a solid white desert. He learned to breathe again while strolling down a hardened path.

Tens of thousands of people knelt on the desert floor and tried to consume the white powder. Five young men fought over the best spots in the desert. Owen remembered these men from the parking garage. He wondered why they were so captivated by the white powder. He was tempted by their offer of a sample for a small fee. But then he decided he wasn't hungry after all. "No thanks," Owen said.

A black dove flew around the sky. He called to Owen, "Why don't you run? You'll get there faster."

"I'm not going anywhere," Owen answered. "And I'm tired of running."

A lightning storm raged in the sky without any rain. Owen tried to count the seconds between burst of lightning and peals of thunder, but they didn't fall into the expected pattern. Thunder, lightning, thunder, lightning … thunder, thunder, thunder … thunder, thunder … lightning. Morse code in the wilderness ... C,O,M,E,B,A,C,K.

For forty days and forty nights Owen wandered through the desert. Rainless thunder and lightning raged the entire time. When he thought he might walk forever Owen came to a stone gate guarded by a Minotaur. On the other side was an enormous field of wheat. The Minotaur blocked his passage with a large battleaxe. At least until he was distracted by a white dove soaring above the field with hyssop stalks laced to his tail. The Minotaur smiled, which must mean that Owen was allowed through. He didn't wait to ask permission.

Owen strolled through the fields where hundreds of thousands of people with lumbering sickles tried to harvest the grain. He recognized them as people who marched past a begging boy, ignoring his pleas of hunger. Each stalk of grain they harvested flew into the air, but the fruit was consumed by locusts before it struck the ground. The people's hunger remained unsatisfied.

Not tempted by the grain, Owen walked by the frustrated farmers who ignored his passing in death, as they had in life. Grasshopper chirps combined with fluttering wings to create an odd pattern in the wind. Flutter … flutter, flutter, flutter … flutter, flutter … chirp. T,O,M,E. Owen had to wonder if each of these people received a message just like his, but they didn't know how to listen.

At the end of the field, he came across millions trying to get out. All sorts of people with all sorts of animals. Some were dressed in colonial garb, some in ancient cloaks, and others in denim. With them were pack horses, donkeys, and dromedaries weighed down with their failures. They parted like the seas and allowed Owen to pass by. On the other side of the crowd was another gateway without any guard. "Why aren't any of you passing through?" Owen asked.

"Are you kidding?" One of them answered. "It's too tiny. We can't fit."

Owen strolled to the looping, silvery gate and looked through. On the other side a flowers filled his view. He looked to his left and right and saw dozens of looping gates to each side. Yet the millions of people stood and waited for approval to pass. He poked his head through the nearest loop. It was huge. He couldn't understand their hesitation.

He stepped through, one foot at a time, and found himself in a magnificent field of wildflowers surrounded by a mighty forest. Until this eruption of color, he didn't realize the world on the other side of the eye was all one color. The river, the desert and the wheat fields were all monochromatic shades of ash. But here, the field before the forest was congested with bright pinks, brilliant yellows and grand purples. The leaves in the forest were the deepest green he had ever seen. The aromas assaulted his noses with a floral frenzy. He never wanted to leave.

Suddenly he was overcome by an abundance of Selkie. She threw her arms around him and hugged tight. "Owen, I'm so glad you made it," she said. He cherished the feel of her embrace he held onto the imperishable kindness for hours. "Oberon is dying to meet you. … Well, not really dying, of course, it's just a figure of speech."

Selkie grabbed him by the arm and towed him through the fields toward the river. "Look at this place, isn't it magical? Do you see the trees? It seems like so long ago, but they were once sprouts in a burned out forest. I watered them myself. Oberon's fortress is at the top of the highest branches."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," Owen said sadly.

"Why would you be sorry? Look at where I am. The faerie land has been restored to beauty. I can't imagine anywhere else I would rather be. And now you're here with me, too." She held her arm in the shape of a serpent. The imaginary head caressed Owen's arm without biting. "Look," she said. "The stain is gone." She laughed in her high pitch staccato laughter. He had missed her uncomplicated happiness, her simple joy. It was contagious.

They reclined on a blanket next to the river and watched the water drift by. Time stood still. It was peaceful. In a moment of silliness, Selkie rolled her pant legs up her knees and waded into the water; Owen followed her lead. Rainbow trout jumped out of the water, catching flies. "Are you hungry?" Selkie asked. "I have fresh wildflower stew ready."

They returned to the blanket with bowls of stew ready. The mixture of wildflower paste looked as delicious as it was colorful, but Owen wasn't hungry in the least. "When do you think Oberon will want to meet with me?" He was worried about the judgment.

"Tomorrow, maybe," Selkie answered.

"As long as I've been here, I haven't seen the sun move," Owen said. "How long before it's tomorrow?"

"Don't you love it? The sun never sets," she said. "It's warm and sunny, and tomorrow never comes."

Owen was confused. In that case when will Oberon want to see him? It made about as much sense as everything else in Selkie's world. One question, one uncertainty, in which he needed to find an answer. "Selkie," Owen asked, "why did you thank me?"

"I don't understand," she said. "I thanked you for everything."

"But I did nothing for you." 

"Don't be so modest. You were my friend."

"I wasn't a very good friend."

"I know I was a difficult person to get along with," Selkie said. "Everybody else treated me like I was simple or foolish. Not you. You inspired me."

She stood up and took Owen by the hand. They left the comfort of the fields next to the river along the path into the faerie forest. "I'm not explaining this very well," she continued. "Before you came the faerie kingdom was a desert wasteland and burned out husks. I thought it was beautiful, but I didn't even know what beauty was. Now look at it. You freed me from the prison of my life. You gave me the courage to face my fears. And most meaningful, to me at least, you were my friend. Without judgment. I never had that before."

"But I wasn't there for you when you needed me. You died because I wasn't there to help you."

"The angel of death needed an offering. You knew that as well as I. You were always there for me … you just couldn't always find me." Then with a big smile, she added, "You found me now. Are you staying?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"It's up to Oberon. We're going to see him now."

The forest canopy stretched to the sky and beyond. They stepped on a wooden platform. With a tug, Selkie pulled on a vine and the elevator began to move upward. "How long is this ride going to take?"

"No more than a day," Selkie answered. It seemed like a standard answer her since eternity was no more than a day.

"Don't you miss the stars?"

"Of course not," she said. "Look at the sky."

Owen leaned out of the elevator to view the sky. The sun shared the rosy skyscape complete with the moon and constellations. "It doesn't seem complete." He found Perseus and Cassiopeia, but there was no Cetus the serpent. Andromeda was missing, too.

Selkie hugged him around the waist and pulled him tight. Reflexively, he placed his arms around her shoulders. Soft and comforting. He could get used to this. He kissed the top of her head.

At the top of the elevator Owen greeted found Lazarus sitting on the edge of the wood with his feet dangling over. He stared through a pair of binoculars over the horizon. Without stirring from his search, he said, "Hi Owen. I saw you coming from a mile away."

"What are you searching for?" Owen asked him.

"I haven't seen my angel, yet," he said. "It's all right. She'll be here soon. You can go inside. Oberon is expecting you."

Inside, Owen found older gray haired, poorly dressed man at the center of a raised pinewood table. On the table sat a massive tome and large set of scales. Owen stood below the table in wonder. "Blaise?" he said.

"Yeah, yeah. Enough of that." He pointed to the book. "This is yours," he said. Owen winced at the shameful contents contained within. Blaise place the book on one end of the scale where it slammed against the stop – overburdening the mechanics of the scale. Owen wasn't sure what that meant, but he didn't think it was promising.

Then Blaise lifted up a single grain of rice and placed it on the opposite end of the balance. The scale slowly tilted in the other direction until the pan with the grain of rice rested below the pan with the book. "Isn't that amazing?" Blaise said. "I don't think I expected that. I guess you get to stay after all. Dismissed!"

Owen strolled out of the fortress and stood next to Lazarus by the railing. He stared in wonder at the panoramic vista. They were miles above the countryside. The canopy of trees, fields and rivers stretched out for miles. There wasn't a city in the field of view … not anywhere on the vast horizon. And it was so blessedly warm. In the quiet above the treetops a tender breeze whispered his name. "Owen, please … please come back to me."

Selkie walked up next to him and placed her arm on his shoulder. "Isn't that wonderful?" Selkie asked. "You get to stay in a land without any want or need."

It was beautiful. The possibility of eternal contentment – something Owen longed for. "Do I have to stay?" Owen asked.

"No," Selkie rubbed his shoulder. "You can choose to leave. But why would you?"

"Contentment sounds wonderful," he lied. It wasn't true contentment for him. She was out there somewhere, and he was infected with uncertainty. "I don't think I'm ready yet. I want to experience the urgency of growing old in a place where one year is one year. I want to experience life at nineteen and twenty and fifty." He left the rest of his wish unspoken. He wanted to grow old with Abby.

"You may never find her," Selkie said. "At some point, you have to let go and surrender your doubts. You can return, when you are ready."

With that declaration, Selkie gave him a kiss on his cheek and pushed Owen off the towering tree platform. The wind whistled through his hair as he tumbled toward the river. _Didn't she promise never to push me?_

With a splash he struck the river and descended deeper and deeper. Into the mouth of the abyss. Numb from the chilled waters, he could barely feel a thing. He waved his arms in the water trying to learn to swim. He looked down and saw his tiny, wrinkly toes. He played with them with his little fingers.

Finally, as his lungs were about to burst, an angel grabbed him by the arms and hauled him into a hospital bed. His tongue was smothered with a salty seaweed paste. He spit it out. "Ugh," he said, "what's that?"

"Ramen noodles. I thought you liked them."

Through the sweat of fever, Owen's eyes beheld a strange, out of focus, miracle. His arms weren't quite working right. Clumsily, he knocked the spoon away. It clattered and clanked on the floor, but he didn't care. "Is it really you?" He placed his hands on her scalp and rubbed the soft bristles of her short hair.

Owen pulled her close and lost sight of his emotions. Numb, like the bed wasn't even beneath him, he was floating. He couldn't breathe. _Am I still underwater_? He didn't care. The bowl of noodles followed the spoon to the floor. Kissing her head, he pulled tighter. He inhaled the fresh, sweet cinnamon smell. He couldn't hold her close enough.

"Why are you crying?" Abby asked him, trying to pull away from his vice-like grip.

The redness was gone from her skin. She had no blisters or sores. He traced the hair above her eyes and the water on her cheeks. "You're crying, too."

"I was fine until you woke up."

He squeezed her tight, worried she was just part of another dream. Her fuzz tickled his nose. Fingering the straps on her dress, he noticed that it was the beige one he picked out because it seemed a colonial style. Something she would like – Selkie's. Finally he relaxed his hold on her and she wiped the Ramen spittle off his mouth with a napkin. But he kept touching her, worried she would disappear into the mist.

_Where am I_? He glanced around. It wasn't the mill or the shelter. The room was like a hospital room … the treatment center. "How did you find me?" he asked.

"I'll always know how to find you. You can never escape."

"But how did you get here?" Owen asked. "I was so worried about you alone beneath that bridge. I can't believe I left you there."

"Before dawn, some guy found me and carried me to the shelter. He was nice. A few nights later Gabriella drove me all the way here." Abby gave a small chuckle. "She thinks I'm your sister."

"You haven't been out in the daylight?" She shook her head. _So we don't know her condition_.

"I wanted to see you first."

A nurse entered the room to check his chart. "Is that girl here again? She's just like a cat … every time I chase her away, she finds a way back in. You're not supposed to have visitors in this wing."

Owen held on tight. "You're not taking her."

"Don't worry about it. I tried to get her to leave for the first few nights. I abandoned the effort after a few days. Your heartbeat dropped dangerously low a couple of times; we almost lost you. Since she's been here you've doing much better."

"Nurse Ryan let me feed you solid food," Abby said. "You had an IV for nutrients, but solid food helps you regain your strength."

"She's right," the nurse said. "Most patients lose weight during the treatments – an IV is just not enough."

"Just like on the roof," Owen wondered. "That's how you kept me alive."

"She's been feeding you for hours every day," Nurse Ryan said. "There is no substitute for that kind of care." Nurse Ryan disconnected his IV, but left the tubes dangling from his elbow. "The worst part of the treatment is over. If you want, you can eat in the cafeteria now. The drugs should be gone from your system. You won't need the methadone cocktail anymore."

"God, you are a beautiful sight," Owen said. Owen clutched her tight once again. She felt warm and solid. He had trouble staring at her and holding her at the same time. It was frustrating. But he held on, for fear of ever letting her go again. Nurse Ryan went about her business dutifully and professionally, but Owen realized how awkward she was with their intimacy. "Abby what are we doing?" Owen asked. "You're just a twelve-year-old kid, and I have AIDS. In this world, they frown on that sort of relationship."

"You don't have HIV or AIDS," Nurse Ryan said. "We test every patient. Just to be safe. You're clean."

"How is that even possible?" Owen asked.

Nurse Ryan shrugged, "Fate. Who knows why some people develop the disease and others don't? You're one of the lucky ones." She returned his medical chart to the hook. "Your numbers are looking good. I should be able to move you into the other wing in a few days. I'll check on you in a little while."

After she left, Abby said, "I'm not twelve any more, either."

"Another miracle," he chuckled. "How'd that happen?"

"I'm thirteen now. I decided March 21st is my new birthday. The day I woke up from a long sleep. Enjoy it while you can, because in a year I'll be fourteen," she declared with a grin. "I'm going to learn the urgency of growing old."

"I guess you expect some sort of present." He glanced at the warped Rubik's cube and lithograph of Abby's father and laughed. "Take it. Everything I own is already yours."

They laid there just like that for what must have been hours. Sometimes talking, sometimes quiet. Owen shared his strange dreams of heaven and hell. "They were just dreams," he said. He had difficulty talking about Selkie. "Selkie wasn't a dream. She wanted you to be her friend."

Finally, when the topics were exhausted, they grew stiff from the reclined position. She pulled herself out of Owen's arms and jumped out of the hospital bed. "Let's go for a walk. You need the exercise."

Owen struggled to free himself out of the bed. "I wonder what I'm going to wear today." He looked through the closet for some spare clothes, the only clothes he had.

Still numb and stiff, his fingers had trouble with the buttons and zipper. He found the photograph of Isabel Clark in his pocket. When dressed he didn't linger before giving Abby another long embrace. He didn't know what was wrong – he had never been so clingy before. She welcomed his touch – except for the head. "Quit touching my hair," she complained. But she was smiling.

"It feels so weird," Owen said. "I can't believe it's growing back. That's a good sign right?"

Abby shrugged with a hopeful smile, "I don't know ... I don't know anything about this."

"All right, let's go." He put his hand in hers and strolled beyond his bedroom door into the treatment center hallway. "Do you know a good place to walk?"

They walked around the circular hallway path of the treatment center. They stayed in the shadows whenever the bright sunlight poked through the high windows. After a few cycles, Abby led him on a different path - down the hall and around the corner. Just beyond the door, Owen saw the sunlit courtyard. "You haven't been out in the sun?"

Abby shook her head. "Not for almost two hundred and forty years. I wanted to see you first. One more time." With a look of nervous anxiety, she worried for Owen. "You should move away a little, just in case."

Owen didn't want this moment to end. With one step he could find himself alone again. His fears were so powerful, so overwhelming, that he could barely stand the thought of moving forward. He had lived most of the last six years in darkness. It wasn't so terrible. "We don't have to go outside. We can wait until nightfall. I don't want today to end."

"I don't either," Abby said, "but I want tomorrow to begin."

He placed his hand underneath Abby's chin, lifted it and kissed her lips. The longing was so genuine, so unsatisfied that he didn't care if anyone saw them. He felt the warmth of her lips with a passion he knew only from his dreams. This desire was missing from the beautiful artistry of the faerie land. He could live without contentment, but he didn't want to live without Abby. With his eyes closed, he released the kiss and steeled his nerves. This was a battle for just them.

He hadn't been sure if the fire burned away their linkage. It was an amazing thing this connection they shared. So close to her, he knew her thoughts and dreams. Now he reached out one more time. The bond was still there, in his mind, just like always. And she was terrified. Owen took several deep, calming breaths, and he knew that it was helping her face her fears and worry. He felt her heart rate drop as her worries coalesced into wonder.

Owen placed his arm around Abby's shoulder and pulled her tight against him. "No matter what, I'm not letting go," he said. He pushed open the door. A sharp shadow crossed the path in front of them showing the demarcation between darkness and light. He couldn't breathe. They took their next step through the door to tomorrow and into the warmth of the sun – together.


	37. Epilogue

Note: I still check back on reviews and comments. If you made it this far, let me know what you think. In particular, some of the early scenes are mindnumbingly slow & boring. But each time I read through them, I feel like the story needs them. Let me know what scenes are particularly bad, and I will try to work on them. Thanks.

Epilogue

Sometimes, I Can't Even Breathe

March 20, 1994

**Owen**

"I can't believe it's been five years." Abby could barely contain her joy over their arrival as the train pulled into the Pueblo station. Trying to look through the walls, her emerald eyes pulsed with excitement. "It feels like I just left yesterday. I wonder if anything has changed." Her solid black dress couldn't hide the brightness of her anticipation.

"A lot has changed," Owen said. Wearing a black loosely fitted suit and uncomfortable new oxford shoes, he dreaded this return. It hadn't been as long for him. "I read about it all of the time." Sometimes he replied to those letters, too. He wished he could have found away to avoid this trip. He hated funerals.

Owen more than just read about the city. Drawn by the magnetic pull of guilt, he had returned for several bittersweet, lonely pilgrimages.

The first time was more than a year after he left. Abby agreed to an invitation from Owen's parents to live with them. Both of his parents. Owen's mother was far too forgiving. ("He's trying to be better. Give him a chance.") His parents were kind and accepting, at first. They helped Abby obtain proper documentation and enroll in school. Not surprisingly, she didn't fit in with the rest of her classmates; she had so little in common with them, but home life was more or less happy. For a short while, it was enough for them all to be together.

Returning one day from his sophomore classes at the university, Owen discovered his father enduring a painful relapse – painful for everybody, but him. Abby straddled his mother, trying to protect her from his irrational anger. Pulling him away, Owen defended them and threatened, "If you ever touch either of them again, I will kill you."

What troubled Owen the most is that he knew that he could kill him; it would be easy. He had done it before. Memories came flooding back and he boarded the last evening train to Pueblo to find some comfort. He never discovered what triggered his father's relapse.

Abby place her hand on his shoulder and pulled him out of his funk. "This is our stop," she said. "Are you okay?" Owen nodded without a word.

In the station they found a bank of lockers for their belongings. It only cost a quarter. Unburdened from their backpack and camping gear Owen kept his bouquet of white lilies.

On the train station steps, the spring air tossed Abby's long hair playfully. She inhaled a breath of the chilled morning air with an enthusiastic and infectious grin, "I love this air," she said. "It makes me feel alive." Then she stared north toward the most obvious change in the city skyline. "Where's the smokestack?" she asked.

"It's long gone," Owen answered. "It collapsed in the fire. Let's go. We have a long walk ahead of us." He grabbed hold of her hand. He needed it for support. Owen wasn't looking forward to this day. He just wanted to get it over with.

"You don't think we'll be late do you?"

"No, we'll be fine. We have plenty of time."

She pulled away from his intertwined fingers and raced to the center of the First Street Bridge with her borrowed ballerina flats flapping on her heels. "Look," she said with a jubilant smile. "I can walk across the river!" Her joy was infectious. Almost forgetting their destination, he jogged to catch up to her. Across the street a family crowded the walkway with fishing lines extended into the Arkansas River. They celebrated as their youngest shrieked from a capture of a lively rainbow trout.

That first time Owen returned to Pueblo, he left without even telling Abby. After disembarking from the train, he made the nighttime journey across the bridge. He thought he must know over half the names in the Verdant Overlook Garden for Peaceful Repose. He searched by flashlight for hours through the all of the many grave markers before he finally found the one he sought. A small marker in the Potter's Field section of the cemetery: Evelyn McTaggert. When he finally returned to a fretful Abby, his father was gone.

A few months later, he made a second escape after the police officer arrived at their door. They had located his father's corpse. Owen never understood this drive to just give up. Complete abandonment of all hope. He could never do that. Now, another voluntary sufferer dangled beneath the branches of that enormous apple tree; his father was eternal fodder for the harpies.

A violent life from a violent death that Owen thought he understood too well. He just couldn't reconcile it with his own life. _And how can I share this with Abby? She has no sympathy for __weakness._ Owen had his own weaknesses – his own temptations. But Abby always knew. She pulled him away from that precipice; she kept him clean. _Why does my father's suicide affect me so much?_

Owen thought he knew the answer - Erasmus. They were all cowards: his father, Charlie Langston, and Father Erasmus. They just gave in and abandoned the struggle. Somehow he knew that Erasmus didn't belong to this group, he didn't live with the same sense of despair. Owen couldn't fathom what made him choose the weak-hearted path. Erasmus was kind and compassionate beyond reason, but he just gave up without even trying.

Since then, Owen made many other escapes to Pueblo, mostly at night, to seek compassion from those left behind.

After crossing the bridge, they completed the rest of the walk in quiet solemnity. An hour later he stood over the shattered, desecrated concrete marker. "Whore" was now permanently chiseled across her name. "Moira", that's what it should have read. For the first time in five years Abby joined him in supplication. He said a few prayers, but the suffocating pressure of Moira's memory was acute. Sometimes, he couldn't even breathe.

"I heard she infected at least six people," Abby said. She was encouraging as always when he drifted into his own path of despondency. "Doesn't that help? You may have saved some."

"No, it doesn't," Owen said. He woke up from nightmares, dreaming about that night. The sticky, sweet river of blood sprayed across his hands and face. "I didn't know anything about her. And that makes all the difference."

"Maybe you did know her," Abby whispered. She squeezed his hand and held it tight for a few seconds. "Just breathe." Sympathy and a dangerous compassion radiated through their link. Why did he sometimes wallow in the memory of death, when he woke up to this miracle of life every day? She wrapped her arm tightly around his waist. "She was the real vampire," Abby said. Her infectious calm flowed through him.

Owen deposited a lily at her grave with a simple prayer for her soul. Someone should think of her. This memory tethered Owen to the bottom of the dead river, holding him to Pueblo. "I don't think I can do it," Owen whispered. "I don't think I can move to Atlanta. It's too far away. I'm needed here," he pleaded. "Moira needs me. Somebody should mourn her passing." He required this emotional release - an addiction more powerful than drugs.

"I'm not letting you give up. You need this more than I do." She was pretty determined when she made up her mind. "You know you're alive because you have this struggle," she said. "Those that give up – they're the dead ones."

Owen withdrew his hand from hers and placed another lily on the marker with another prayer. Abby continued, "I only applied to one school so that I could be near you." As Owen dropped another floral memory, Abby continued to try. "There are not nearly enough lilies in the entire world for my crimes. Yet you never gave up. Trust me to be there for you."

"I have an idea." Owen cracked a slight smile at her optimism. Two hundred and forty years old with the boundless optimism of youth. She lived in the future, while he remained shackled to the past. "I'll save one for you," he said handing one of the two remaining flowers to Abby.

"Just one?"

Owen nodded. "That's all you need. We have one more grave," he said. He maneuvered her half way across the cemetery to the marble stone in the tree-lined shady section. Several nights he fell asleep in the moonlit shadow of this tree. The cold ground reminded him of the concrete floor of the steel mill. He found comfort here - Selkie. She never gave in. Life was hard. Now she found herself in a well deserved place of peace. Yet, he missed her just the same.

He left another lily on the soft grass next to her obelisk – a sheltered buoy in the storm. He said a short prayer for her memory. So distracted by thoughts of Selkie, he failed to notice the presence seated on the bench beneath the tree.

"It should be you," Jane said.

Abby squeezed his arm in anger, while Owen managed to remain calm. Jane - he could handle. He turned around and saw her. He gained strength from her anger. "You're right," he responded, "but she earned her rest. You kept her in a prison. I set her free."

"I tried to protect her from garbage like you. That's all I ever wanted ... to keep her safe."

_How dare she defile Selkie's memory?_ Owen wanted to respond with a furious taunt, but he took a moment to study her. With wrinkled, sallow skin, Jane looked like she aged thirty years since he had seen her. She wore a black dress of mourning in an archaic style. Purple bruises showed through lace pattern at the inside of each elbow joint.

"Are you all right?" Owen asked out of concern. "Can I do anything for you? You're not taking drugs are you?"

"How dare you?" Jane quickly covered the scars and bruises with each hand. "You drink from that poisonous well. I don't debase myself by abusing drugs! I use all natural remedies. Go away; leave us alone."

"Let's go, Owen," Abby said. She pulled him away from Jane and over towards the arriving crowd. The memory left Owen with a sour feeling. Selkie's grave should be a place of peace. Jane's verbal desecration was just as evil as the physical desecration was for Moira's.

Nearby, a backhoe idled next to a freshly dug grave. People began to gather around a temporary canvas shelter, children laughing and playing, and adults joking with each other. A little girl in a pretty pink dress ran up the plastic green carpet which covered the mound of fresh dirt. _They should show more respect_.

Owen and Abby found themselves in a group of people around Aileen. "I'm sorry for your loss," Owen said trying to find the right words. Abby nodded in agreement with a sad smile and puppy dog eyes.

Aileen studied Abby, perhaps surprised by her youth. She had never met her, but over the years Aileen wrote him asking how he was doing. Owen sometimes returned a quick note. He avoided any subjects about himself, but rambled endlessly about Abby.

She was the one who informed Owen about the funeral. "Don't be sorry," she said with a brilliant smile. "I'm not. This is a celebration not a mourning. Five years of joy I never thought I would have." Then she asked how school was going.

Owen mumbled a vague attempt at an answer, but Abby quickly interjected. "He just read for his masters in disease pathology," she bragged. "Next year he is interning at the CDC while working toward his PhD … at Emory University in Atlanta."

Aileen wouldn't cry at the funeral, but she teared up at this news. "That's wonderful," she said and embraced him in a tight hug that caused everyone to stare. After a few moments she released him and asked, "Do you remember when I first met you? This was my wish for you."

"I haven't accepted, yet," Owen said glancing toward Jane sitting on the lonely bench. She glared at him while squeezing the lily into the ground with her shoe.

"What do you mean? Of course you're going," Aileen insisted. She seemed thrilled with the prospect. "You're going to do something great something about this awful disease." Then she turned to Abby, "What about you?"

"I'm going to be a phlebotomist," she answered trying to maintain a serious expression.

Aileen seemed at a loss on how to respond to that one. "That sounds interesting," was all she said.

"No, she's not," Owen said. "It's Georgia Tech for her to study engineering. She wants to build bridges."

The milling crowd began to grow. Aileen called to her husband. "Tony, come over here," she said. "Do you remember Owen?"

"Of course." Tony wore a blue suit which hung loosely on his shrunken frame. "I'm keeping a close eye on you from my Denver office. I was sorry to hear about your father."

"That was a long time ago," Owen said, but he was sorry, too. He still couldn't understand after all these years.

A hearse pulled up next to the curb. Tony and a few other men gathered alongside the rear door as the funeral home operator opened the liftgate. They pulled out a white casket, which was far too small, and carried it over to the grave. The director set up kneelers and a temporary podium. Owen stood in line behind the others. He was surprised when the director opened up half of the casket for a final public viewing. The line of people became more solemn, but the little girl in the pink dress danced next to the open casket.

Abby stood beside him while Owen paid his last respects. She didn't know the child. Neither did Owen, really. A sweet little boy, falling asleep in his lap while dreaming of Abby-like angels. Owen had held him tight.

He was stirred from the prayer by the little girl's dancing motions next to him. "Did you know my brother?" she asked.

"A little," Owen answered. "When he was younger. What's your name?"

"Angelica," she said with huge grin and a curtsy.

"That's a beautiful name. Where did you get it?" Owen was a little worried about the growing line of people behind him, but they seemed unhurried.

"My brother chose it. He called me his little angel."

Owen studied her for a moment in the sunlight. She did look a little like Abby with her long blond hair in ribbons. "I'm sorry about your brother. I'm sure you'll miss him."

She placed her hand on his shoulder and gave him a consoling look. "I know my brother's dead," she said, "but maybe he'll get better."

"Maybe he will," Owen said. He stood up and took her hand. "I have a present for you; if your mother says it s okay." They walked over to Aileen with Angelica on one hand and Abby on the other. Bookends.

They strolled over to Aileen chatting quietly in the group. "Mama, this man says he has a present for me." _Man?_

"What is it, Owen?" she asked with a curious wrinkle to her eyebrows. He withdrew the cracked, graying, wallet sized photograph from his pocket. Owen didn't know why he kept it with him all these years. Perhaps for Caleb's funeral. Right now, it felt right to present it to this dancing, energetic child.

Aileen gasped when she saw it. "Where did you get that?" Owen shrugged not really sure how to answer - from an old man in an alley. "Of course you can give it to her."

"She's beautiful," Angelica said when Owen handed her the picture. "Who is she?"

"She's your mother," Owen said. "I remember how she used to hold you. Like she never wanted to let you go."

Angelica touched the photo like it was a fragile, ethereal spirit. The same way he noticed Abby touching the lithograph of her own father in the darkness.

"Thank you," Angelica whispered. "I never knew what she looked like." She turned to Aileen, "Look mama, she's beautiful."

"Yes, she is," Aileen said. She held her hand to her mouth, reigning in tears. "That was very nice of you. You're a special person."

Owen was embarrassed by the compliment. There was nothing special about him.

Tony had taken his spot behind the podium, with a stack of index cards, and tapped on the microphone to confirm its volume. The crowd started to quiet in anticipation of his eulogy. "Thank you everybody for coming," he announced. "Today we recall and cherish the brief life of our adopted son, Caleb. Sentenced to death from the day he was born, but I was blessed to call him my son the past five years. His courageous enthusiasm to enjoy life taught me more than any one of you out there ever did."

He flipped the cards to the second page of his notes. "I remember one day, I planned off from work, but I was asked to come in - as so often happens with my job. Caleb was about eight and already playing in the new wooden swingset in the backyard of our Denver home. I watched in wonder as he attached cardboard boxes with duct tape to cover the outside legs of the three story tower.

"I decided to call in and ask for someone else to take the case. I made a terrible choice and stayed home. It was the day of the infamous Paulk double murders. Evidence needs to be gathered and analyzed within 24 hours of the murder for the best chance of obtaining a conviction." Tony stopped his talk for several blasts of a dry, hacking cough. "I should have made that my priority, but I didn't … I couldn't. The lead investigator on the case, Detective Baran, received enough notoriety that he is now my boss." There was a quiet chuckle from the police officer contingent of the crowd.

"Caleb and I stayed hard at work until we covered the entire outside of the structure. He kept me busy all day. Then we painted it white, with large "USA" letters on the side. We even attached tail fins pointing from each corner. Finally, after a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich dinner, we were ready for blast-off. He asked his mother to make a third sandwich for the trip." Tony's pager, hanging on the side of his belt, vibrated interrupting his talk. He glanced at the number and fished a prescription bottle out of his pocket. He washed down a white horse pill with a little bit of water. Owen wondered as a few others in the crowd mirrored the same action.

"Where was I?" Tony continued. "That's right … blasting off. Caleb and I pretended to shake from the vibration of the powerful rocket engines. It calmed down quite a bit when broke through the ionosphere. I had to look up that word, but Caleb knew it. After a quick space walk to repair a few loose panels with our plastic, Fischer Price hammer, we were ready for our final journey. I asked him where we were headed."

"He pointed to the brightest star in the sky and said, 'Right there.'"

"'What happens there?' I ask."

"He says, 'That's where Lazarus lives.'"

"And we spent the evening in the stars with Caleb's brother. The extra sandwich was to share with him. I had been content to wander through life. Caleb taught me to savor every moment."

"Once I thought that 'we are the sum of the choices we make.' So chained to the expectations of my past, I could not even find the strength to graduate from college. Many people make bad choices that turn out okay, while others make good choices that turn out poorly. You can't measure someone by such luck."

"Another wise man told me that we learn from our past, but we are not defined by it. 'We are our next choice.' Erasmus was a smart guy, but I don't buy this idea either. I became so frightened of making bad decisions that I made as few as possible."

"When Caleb came to live at our house, he knew his time was limited. He didn't mourn or complain about his fate; he still enjoyed life. This young boy, who was born under a death sentence, taught me how to appreciate life. The 'Why' is important. Why we make decisions defines who we are."

"I made a terrible choice to spend that day with Caleb, but it was a wonderful decision. The murderer may have escaped. I would like to think we would have caught him sooner had I been there. Instead, I got to travel to the heavens and witness the joys of life through the eyes of a dying boy. A terrible choice for all of the right reasons. I would make the same decision all over again. If only I could."

The crowd was quiet throughout the eulogy. The words made so much sense, that they were liberating. Owen felt the shackles binding him to the bottom of that river shatter. He could swim free for the first time. A revelation such as this should be accompanied by fireworks or at least Molotov cocktail-like explosions. But Owen restrained his celebration; he simply squeezed Abby's hand. She knew he felt something, but could only guess its meaning.

Following Tony s speech, the rest of the crowd milled around the cemetery while the casket was closed. Angelica ran to the front of the line and kissed the metal shrouded coffin. Owen followed her as she then ran back to her father's side. He approached Tony and said, "That was beautiful. You were like Moses parting the Dead Sea for me."

Aileen intervened, "You mean the Red Sea, honey. Moses parted the Red Sea."

"Not for me. It was the Dead Sea... or maybe it was a dead river." He reached up to shake Tony's hand in thanks.

Angelica held on tight to her stepfather s other hand. "Daddy, do you think we could take the rocket to the stars tonight?"

"You want to visit your brother?" Tony asked.

Angelica nodded with a smile. "I want to see both of them. Maybe my mother, too. She shared the photograph with her father."

Abby said, "Does this mean that you are going to Atlanta?"

"Yeah, I think it does," Owen said.

"I knew you would!" Aileen exclaimed with another hug. "Maybe you can start working on AIDS right away. We could really use it."

"I have a feeling that there might be a breakthrough any time now. There are so many good research projects in that area. Someone is bound to find more effective treatments soon," Owen said. "As an intern, I may not get to work on AIDS. I go where I'm assigned."

After a little more chat. Owen and Abby bid them goodbye and strolled, hand-in-hand, back to the train station. "If you don't think they will have you studying AIDS, is there any other disease that you can work on there?"

"Perhaps I could suggest one," Owen answered. "I'm having a little trouble with the name. The Y just doesn't seem to work."

"What name were you considering for this strange, new disease?" Abby asked as they crossed the First Street Bridge.

"I was thinking something along the lines of Acquired Bloodborne, Yikes or ABBY, but it doesn't sound very professional. Instead, maybe ABSS would be better - Acquired Blood Sucker Syndrome. I think it might be a little more appropriate. I might have to change your name to Abss."

"Oh no you won't," Abby said giving Owen a reason to chuckle.

They collected their back packs from the storage lockers and changed into more casual clothes for the long hike to the park. Abby kept hold of that white lily, but she didn't once ask what to do with it. She knew him well enough - Owen had something in mind for the flower.

Back over the bridge Abby raced ahead once again. They left the sidewalk and started north along the path running beside the western side of the river. Three blocks later, they crossed the demarcation of the Fourth Street Bridge's shadow into the sunlight. A metallic click sounded. Abby kicked something in the river bank's sand. "What's that?" she wondered and picked it up from the ground.

It was a silver cross with a fine linked chain. "This is the spot," Owen said. He lifted the chain and wrapped it around the lily. Handing it back to Abby he said, "It's your turn. This is where you can let your past go. Father Erasmus died here - your last victim."

Abby held the cross and flower in her hands. "What was it that Tony said, that affected you so much?"

Owen wasn't sure. It was just another way to look at the past. "When Erasmus died here, I thought he was just like the others who gave up. I have no idea which 'truth' is the right 'truth'. It's all about faith. Erasmus was at a crossroads of two impossible choices – live with the tragedy of compulsive murder or accept the uncertainty of his own death. Erasmus had to believe that his death would mean an eternity in torment – for a priest it was suicide. His entire faith was built on that idea. I couldn't understand him, and I couldn't stop him. My father and Charlie Langston struggled with the pain of life and succumbed. Tony said, 'the why matters'. Erasmus didn't surrender, he made a choice to end his life rather than drink human blood. He chose to risk the mercy of God, rather than kill someone. Does that make sense?"

"Sort of," Abby answered. "His death was an act of bravery rather than cowardice. You know there may be worse things than eternity in hell."

"Like what?"

"Like eternity as a twelve year old."

"I remember those days. You made my life hell," Owen laughed. "It's just like the difference between you and your uncle. You both needed blood to survive. He was evil and you are nothing like him. He enjoyed creating fear, while you hated it."

"What about you? How does this free you?"

Owen shrugged. "It doesn't really. Not completely. I chose to kill because I thought it was a desperate act of love. I was misguided, but I never gave in. I was better than your uncle. I can live with that … at least until my next choice."

Abby closed her eyes and awkwardly mumbled a few words a prayer for this man she didn't know. When ready, she tossed the flower and chain into the Arkansas River and watched it drift with the current. "How far do you think it will go?"

"I think it will make it all the way to the Mississippi. It has a long journey ahead of it."

His words were betrayed almost immediately when the flower hung up on the first spillway. "Awww." Abby moaned. "I thought it would make it." It was the same spillway which once caught Blaise's body.

"Maybe I should wade out and give it a push," Owen said. "It's never easy." He wished he had a couple of garbage bags to use as hip waders.

Across the river dozens of cars pulled into the parking lot of the enormous white cinder building. "What is going on over there?" Abby wondered. "That's not the mill."

Owen took his eyes off the lily for a moment and glanced at the building. "It looks like second shift is arriving for work at the semiconductor plant. Built on the grounds of our old home. Over two thousand people work there now."

Just then he saw a ripple and a splash at the spillway. A fish jumped over the spillway, bumping the flower loose from its mooring. "Look it's free." Abby laughed and started running after it down the path.

_I am_, thought Owen.

She ran down the entirety of the path while the flower surged across one spillway after the other. Owen trailed behind following the sound of her joyous peals in the wind. She ran much faster than he. After crossing the final spillway, the flower accelerated - carried by the rapidly flowing river until it faded in the distance. "Bye Erasmus," Abby whispered just as Owen caught up to her.

**Jane Mosi**

Jane made the lonely trek back to the old Barleysmith house just like always. Most days, some sort of memorial service was held at the cemetery and she dressed appropriately. She had no idea that today would augur such a large crowd … and that boy! How dare he approach Selkie's grave. Having the gall to be alive.

Comfortable enough to live with Rufus's inheritance, Jane shuttered the store and relocated to the mansion. Doctor appointments, occasional shopping, and visits to Selkie's resting place occupied her days. Jane was content; she led a full life.

She unlocked the four latches to the front door and rested her purse on a table just inside. A black cat greeted her on entrance. Lights weren't needed; she could see just fine. After a change into old clothes she returned to the kitchen, ready to get dirty. Before beginning her task, she downed a huge glass of sweet orange juice along with two enormous prescription iron pills. The doctor had no idea why she wasn't responding to the treatment.

Fully hydrated, she burrowed into her refrigerated supplies for a hypodermic needle and rubber tubing. With the tourniquet pulled tight by her teeth, she probed her elbow joint until she found the vein. Sharp and intense pain accompanied the jab, but she was used to it. _I can't believe that boy thought I was abusing drugs. Bloodletting is a healthy release_.

She laid back and allowed the blood to trickle into the thick plastic bag. Her own life energy seemed to drain along with it. For a few moments, or maybe longer, she fell asleep. When she awoke, the sun had nearly set and the bag was bloated, near bursting. Blood dribbled down her arm around the needle.

After withdrawing the syringe, Jane rinsed off her arm and returned the blood to the refrigerator. Weak from the bloodletting, her hands shook as she prepared a light evening meal of beans and broccoli, very slowly and deliberately. By the time she was finished eating, night had fallen. She tried to ignore the agonizing wail.

Finally, after her dinner was complete and the dishes cleared, Jane journeyed down the basement steps with the bag of her blood in hand. As soon as she opened the door, the rumbling cacophony – an amalgam of pain and need - echoed up the stairs. "Please, I need food," he cried.

"Calm down. I have something for you." She tossed him the bag of blood. "Be careful with this. They're hard to come by. Don't tear it."

Ravished with thirst, Javier ignored her pleas and dug into the PVC bag for the drug he craved. After sucking down the contents, his eyes transformed to a blend between the blue and his normal brown and the acne began to clear. He still reeked of decay. "I need more," Javier growled. "Maybe just another bag."

"I don't have any more," Jane said. "Just one bag every few days. She sat down next to Javier and cradled him in her arms. If I could give you more, I would." She caressed his cheek with care.

"She's out there, isn't she? I can feel her," Javier said. "Just let me go. I can collect my own food."

"I can't do that," Jane rubbed the top of his head, pressing down his filthy, matted hair. She kissed his forehead. "You won't be safe. I have to protect you."

Javier moved his teeth toward Jane's neck and teased the skin covering the jugular with his teeth. He heard the blood coursing just beneath. It called to him.

"You don't want to do that," Jane said. She didn't know how, but she heard his thoughts almost as though they were her own. This close, the ideas muddled together. "What would happen to you if I died down here? You would be stuck without any food."

"Please," Javier begged again, "I'm a prisoner anyway."

"The world is an ugly place. I can protect you from all that evil."

Owen's words came back to her as she held Javier_. You kept her in a prison. I set her free_.

Maybe she was holding him back. "Owen is in town. He is here with her," Jane said as she unlocked the shackles, trusting Javier to do the right thing.

**Owen**

They settled in for a relaxing evening at Lake Pueblo. Their camp was established at the base of the waterfall rushing from the opening in the dam. The water collected in a smooth, deep pond before it roared down the river. Fish jumped from the water chasing insects. "I thought the river was dead," Abby said.

"It used to be," Owen said. "The state built a facility up river to clean the acid runoff from the mines. Then they stocked the river with trout and other fish."

There the two of them established camp. After a little bit of struggle, and some heated discussion, they assembled the aluminum poles for their new tent. You would think the bond would make teamwork a little easier during these moments. Instead they seemed to feed off of each other's tension.

At least until Abby found the humor in Owen s clumsiness. "Just read the instructions," she said. She picked up one of the loops which should have had a pole running through it. "I don t think this is supposed to be work like this."

"I don't need instructions. I'm figuring it out. It's just a big puzzle. Anybody could have missed that loop." Abby found a few more loops. "Or those. You're supposed to be the engineer here," Owen complained with a frustrated chuckle. He pulled a pole apart so that he could slide it through the loops he missed.

Owen arranged stones in a circular pattern and collected wood while Abby changed into her cutoff shorts and a bikini top. He started a small fire (all those years gave him some talent) and then escaped into the tent to change.

He heard a noise like something plunging into the water followed by Abby's scream. Anxious from worry he rushed out of the tent to find Abby in the river squealing with laughter. "The water is freezing," she said. "Hurry up; you need to get in."

Owen gingerly stepped in the water. The runoff from the mountain snow was cold. "You scared the shite out of me," he said. "I can t believe you screamed like that."

Abby was still squealing with laughter. "I love it. I can feel the cold. There is nothing quite like it."

Owen settled fully into the water and, with a few powerful strokes, he pulled himself across the river. It took years and a number of classes at the university for him to gain confidence with swimming.

After completing the distance across the river, Owen turned around and couldn't see her anymore. "Abby?" he called tentatively. "Where are you?"

She didn't answer. He felt the sensation of a burning pressure in her chest. The bond was helpful, but sometimes he wished it weren't so intense. He swam across to the center area beneath the waterfall while the burning sensation deepened. He dove down and found her on the bottom. When he pulled her above the surface, she inhaled a huge gasp of air. "Are you okay?" Owen asked. He pulled her tight against him. "I thought you were going to drown."

She smiled as she regained her breath and rested her chin against his neck. She let Owen tread water and relaxed while Owen held her afloat. "I knew you wouldn't let me," she said.

"Why'd you do that?" Owen asked.

"I wasn't trying to drown," she said. "I wanted to feel that longing for air. That's how I know I'm alive. Right?"

"Please … please don't do it again," Owen begged. "You're getting older every day. You survive exposure to the sun. You have nothing to prove anymore."

Owen continued to tread water and held her. He could have lasted for hours, but the wind began to pick up when sun settle toward the horizon. "Let s go warm up by the fire," Owen said.

Worried for her, he gingerly towed her over to the bank. The chill descended rapidly with the darkness. They dried off, changed into warmer clothing and started to prepare dinner. He knew Abby was okay when she giggled at the messiness of the 'smores they cooked for desert.

By then, the fire could not hide the luster of the stars. Owen had forgotten how bright they were in Pueblo. Princess Andromeda watched over them.

Abby held out her hands to the fire. "The warmth is incredible," she said."Just like the cold … I love it."

Owen placed her hands on hers pulling them close. She buried her shoulder into Owen's chest and welcomed the compassion of his arm around her shoulder. "I hope I never lose sight of what I've recovered," she said. "That's my wish now. I pray I don't grow too used to the richness of these sensations."

"I'll never let you," Owen promised.

Abby nodded in the direction of a glowing star. Owen did not have to ask which one. "That star is yours," she said, "the brightest star in Perseus. You were always braver than he; you didn't need a gorgon's head to kill my uncle."

"I'm not so brave," Owen said. "I was terrified. And I still am."

"Don't," she insisted. She pushed away so that she could see his eyes. "Even if you were frightened, you did something I could never do. I couldn't find it within myself to fight him. He was gone for a hundred years, and he still held that power over me."

She kissed him. The warmth and tenderness washed over him. Owen hoped that he would never become too accustomed to the softness. "And I need you to keep that spirit," Abby said.

Owen was, once again, embarrassed by a compliment. That night on the steel mill, he just reacted and hoped. There was nothing brave about it. He decided to change the subject. "I thought tomorrow we could stay in Pueblo and go to the zoo. I hear it is really special."

"Owen, that's a brilliant!" Abby said. Her eyes twinkled with happiness. "I always wanted to see the zoo. We never did make the last time."

While the stars traversed the sky, their discussion wandered aimlessly. They talked about the animals they wanted to see and their future in Atlanta. Anything that came to mind. After a few hours, Abby looked at her watch. "Look it s after midnight," she said. "You know what that means?"

"What?" Owen played dumb.

"I'll never be seventeen again. I can't believe how fast the year went. She smiled with a bright shimmer in her eyes that dwarfed the luster of the stars. "I'm eighteen, and I've been eighteen for a very short time."

"Yeah, yeah," Owen said, "eighteen - more or less."

"Don't start that. What did you get me?"

"I thought you didn't get presents," Owen said.

Abby glowered, "Are you going to say that every year?"

Owen chuckled, "Never again." He rose from his seated position and routed through his knapsack. "Here it is." He withdrew a tiny wrapped package from the bottom. He handed it to her with an expectant and anxious smile. "I hope you like it."

Abby tore off the white bow and silver wrapping paper. She gasped when she found a hinged, green velour jewelry box. Inside was a solitaire diamond set in a golden ring. With a tear forming in her eye she asked, "Is this what I think it is?"

Owen's skin tingled in uncertainty and doubt. He nodded, but he couldn't say a word.

"I'd like to hear it," she whispered.

Owen imagined this moment a thousand times. In his dreams, he was cool and suave. Tonight he was shaking and his mouth was dry. He was having a little trouble forming the words. "Will you … umm?" His tongue felt like lead. Why was this so difficult? He would rather face a vicious uncle on the roof of a firebombed factory.

Abby let him off the hook for the rest of the question. She leaped up from her seated position around the fire, threw her arms around his neck and held on tight. She didn't have to say anything, he knew the answer.

After a few minutes she pulled back and held the ring out to stare at it. Owen took it from her hands and placed it on her finger. "I'm sorry it's so small," he said. It was all he could afford from his part time jobs. "Someday maybe I can get you different one … a bigger one." He had to find enough money for a car soon, too. They're driving across the country at the end of the summer.

"It's beautiful," Abby said. "All I ever wanted."

Her joy, her simple contentment helped to relax him."I thought you should settle down after two hundred forty years or so. You don't want to become a spinster or anything."

"Ha, ha … thanks for your concern."

They returned to their seats next to the fire and spoke of their years to come. Owen thought they could be married under the stars, but Abby wanted the warmth of the sun. "I know I said I hated sunshine," she admitted, "but that's not true … not anymore. I don't think I ever hated it."

As often happens at night, the conversation faded with their energy. Abby began to grow anxious and sleepy. She stared back toward the east with her sentences trailing off.

"I'll join you in a minute," Owen said. "I need to clean up. Don't want to attract any unwanted vermin."

"Do you have a needle and thread?" Abby asked. "I have something I need to sew."

Owen fished a travel Owen out of his backpack and handed it to Abby. "Here try this," he said.

Abby entered their tent with a shy glance back toward Owen. She zipped the tent flap closed revealing the word "paradise" scrawled on the door. _When did she have time to write that_? This was going to be a quick cleaning job. Finally, after he doused the fire doused and packaged the food away Owen unzipped the flap and crossed the threshold into paradise.

Abby was already tucked into her sleeping bag with the lantern light turned off. Owen snuggled next to her in the warm Gore-tex bag. She reached her lips up to kiss him. What it lacked in warmth it made up for the immediacy of the moment. _Am I already growing too used to her lips_? That was a sad thought.

"It's going to be all right," she said. "We're safe here … protected."

"Of course it's all right. It's going to be better than all right," Owen protested.

Abby reached her fingers around Owen's neck, pulled him close, and kissed him again with an even more desperate urgency.

"What's wrong?" He pulled her hand into his and held it to his lips. Her fingers trembled has he kissed them. He felt a sticky, sweet liquid on his lips and was reminded of the coppery tinged odor. She seemed out of sorts. "What did you do, Abby?"

Owen heard a jarring screech from the eastern sky over the city. His hairs stood up on the back of his neck and his skin became numb. Someone was patrolling. Finding the battery operated camping lantern he switched it on. Ancient symbols were sketched onto each of the four walls of the tent painted in blood. _Blood magic … very powerful_.

"We can never defeat evil," she said. "That doesn't mean that we shouldn't continue to fight it. We all fight in our own way." A second high-pitched shriek shattered the stillness. Abby continued, "It's all right. We're protected. He can't see us behind the symbols … and he's on the other side of the river."

_For how long_? Owen wondered. He grabbed onto Abby and held tight. Sometimes, when he felt her anxiety radiate through the bond, he had a difficult time remembering that she was no longer that twelve year old girl. He had an instinctive need to safeguard her from her demons. Lying here, underneath the thin fabric of this tent, on the southwestern bank of the Arkansas River, Owen knew he was alive. He was so frightened for their uncertain future that he couldn't even breathe.

**Note**: It seems like a few people out there are still reading the story – for which I'm very grateful. If you get this far, please leave a few comments to let me know what you thought. I'm always trying to improve.


End file.
